iiii 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  HYPHEN 

VOLUME  I. 


THE  HYPHEN 


BY 


LIDA    C.   SCHEM 


VOLUME  I. 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

68 1   FIFTH  AVENUE 


Copyright,  1920, 
By  E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PS 

3537 


V.I 
CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PROLOGUE   «  '  .   ...   .   v   .   .   .   i 
PART  I.  CHILDHOOD 

CHAPTER 

I  .......  .  •  •  •  •  -37 

II  ......  .  .  .  .  .  .          '.56 

III  .....       ...       ..'.,.     81 

IV  ........       .....     99 

V  ......  '     .  -    .       .       .       .       .       .106 

VI  ........       .       .       .       .       .118 

VII  ......       .       .....       .    ".'..       .       .  141 

vni  .....    .    .    ;    .    .    .    .    .159 

rx  .......     .......  181 

X  .............  194 

XI  ...........      -.       .  215 

PART  II.     YOUTH 

I.  ...       ......       .       .  233 

II  .......       .       .       .       .       .       .240 

III  ......     '  .......  264 

IV  .....       .       ...  '    .       .       .       .288 

V.    .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       *       .       .  334 

VI.    ..       .       .       ,       .       .       .....  374 

VII  .....       ,       .       .       .       .       ...  413 

VIII  ......       .       ......  423 

IX.    .       .       .       .      '  .....      ....  456 

X.    ...      .       .       .       .       *      .       .       .       .       .481 

XL    .       .       .    .  ......       .       .       .488 

XII  .....       .       .       .  "   .       .       .       .       .508 

END   OF   VOLUME   I. 


736286 


PROLOGUE 


THE  HYPHEN 


PROLOGUE 

THERE  are  some  few  dates  in  history  which  shine 
luminously  out  of  the  dim  vistas  of  the  past.  They 
are  beacon-lights  in  the  ocean  of  time,  milestones  on  the 
road  of  progress.  They  stir  the  blood  and  fire  the  imagina 
tion  as  no  battle-song  or  ballad  has  power  to  do.  Such 
dynamic  dates  are  480  B.C.;  121 5;.  1776;  1789.  They  per 
petuate  the  glory  of  Greece,  the  manliness  of  England,  the 
idealism  of  America,  the  dauntlessness  of  France.  The 
year  1848  narrowly  missed  earning  its  place  in  this  galaxy, 
and  Germany,  not  from  lack  of  courage  or  dearth  of  ideal 
ism,  but  through  the  political  immaturity  of  the  people  at 
large  lost  her  golden  opportunity  and  sank  back  into  the 
quagmire  of  political  serfdom. 

Among  the  gallant  men  who  risked  life  and  fortune  in 
the  losing  fight  for  German  liberty,  forfeiting  the  latter 
and  barely  saving  the  first,  was  a  young  Prussian  gentleman 
by  the  name  of  Guido  von  Estritz.  He  had  fought  bravely 
both  with  the  pen  and  with  the  sword.  When  the  last 
street  barricade  in  Berlin  had  been  demolished,  and  with 
it  the  hope  of  German  freedom,  young  von  Estritz  stood 
in  the  dense  throng  that  watched  in  ominous  silence  while 
the  King,  not  daring  for  once  to  disregard  the  demand 
of  the  infuriated  populace,  stood  bare-headed  on  the 
balcony  of  the  Royal  Palace,  as  the  solemn  procession 
marched  by  carrying  or  wheeling  away  the  wounded  and 
the  dead. 

Hope  also — both  national  and  individual — was  dead  in 
young  von  Estritz's  breast.  He  knew  for  a  certainty  that 
for  many  a  long  year  to  come  there  would  be  no  renascence 
of  the  spirit  of  liberty  in  the  country  of  his  birth.  An 


2  THE  HYPHEN 

amnesty,  it  is  true,  was  to  be  proclaimed.  That  amnesty 
would  embrace  those  who  had  fought  with  the  sword,  but 
would  exclude  all  who  had  used  the  pen  to  promulgate 
the  monstrous  theory  that  the  people  of  Prussia  were 
justified  in  demanding  a  constitutional  government.  The 
implied  compliment  to  the  smaller  of  the  two  instruments 
which  he  had  wielded  made  him  an  outlaw.  To  be  taken 
by  the  King's  Guards  would  mean  imprisonment  for  life. 
Nothing  remained  but  flight. 

Travestied  as  an  itinerant  peddler,  he  made  his  way  to 
Switzerland.  But  Switzerland  was  not  his  destination — 
nor  France,  nor  England.  Washington,  world-patriot,  had 
been  the  superman  whose  conduct  von  Estritz  had  sought 
to  emulate,  and  to  the  country  that  Washington  had  made 
came  Guido  von  Estritz,  political  refugee,  in  1848. 

The  Declaration  of  Independence  was  the  apogee  of 
human  wisdom  in  the  opinion  of  the  young  enthusiast.  As 
a  matter  of  course  he  repudiated  allegiance  to  all  foreign 
potentates  and  became  an  American  citizen. 

He  possessed  some  talent  as  a  violinist,  and  had  no  diffi 
culty  in  securing  a  berth  with  a  local  orchestra.  He  also 
achieved  an  extraordinary  popularity  as  a  teacher  of  the 
violin,  a  vogue  due  quite  as  much  to  his  striking  person 
ality  as  to  his  talent.  Among  his  pupils  was  a  young 
German-American  girl,  Irma  Helger.  Flaxen-haired,  blue- 
eyed,  docile  and  unquestioningly  feminine,  her  type  was 
uncompromisingly  Teutonic,  which  von  Estritz's  was  not. 
From  forebears  other  than  German  he  had  inherited  a  pallid 
skin,  black  hair  and  almost  Orientally  luminous  black  eyes 
which  turned  the  heads  of  all  the  girls  who  were  his 
pupils.  Von  Estritz  fell  in  love  with  pretty  Irma  Helger; 
pretty  Irma  Helger  prostrated  herself  in  spirit  as  before 
a  god  to  the  distinguished  young  aristocrat.  Her  father 
was  a  wealthy  silk  manufacturer.  An  indigent,  fiddle- 
scraping  son-in-law  could  hardly  be  expected  to  be  to  his 
liking.  But  the  magic  prefix  "von"  before  the  lover's 
patronymic  and  the  name  he  had  made  for  himself  as  an 
Achtundvierziger  won  old  Helger's  consent.  He  so  far 
accommodated  himself  to  his  daughter's  choice  that  he  took 
his  handsome  son-in-law  into  partnership. 

After  fifteen  years  this  marriage  was  blessed  with  an 
only  child,  Guido  the  Second,  who  was  as  like  his  mother 


PROLOGUE  3 

in  appearance  as  he  was  like  his  father  in  character.  An 
idealist  of  the  purest  water,  he  had  conceived  before  his 
twentieth  year  the  ambitious  idea  of  consummating  a  Syn 
thesis  of  Political  Principles.  The  Synthesis  was  to  be 
a  treatise  written  by  himself  after  a  tour  of  inspection  of 
all  the  countries  of  the  world.  Proceeding  from  the  theory 
that  every  form  of  government  embodies  the  experience 
of  the  race  which  has  produced  it  and  therefore  is  bound 
to  incorporate  at  least  a  few  grains  of  wisdom,  the  second 
Guido  desired  to  extract  what  was  best  from  each  govern 
ment  and  to  present,  in  practical  form,  suggestions  for  a 
sort  of  multiple  government  whose  common  denominator 
was  to  be  human  happiness.  Such  a  multiple  government, 
he  felt,  must  abolish  poverty,  and  secure  human  happiness 
in  perpetuity. 

His  father  approved  of  the  plan  tentatively,  but  scent 
ing  socialism  in  his  son's  flamboyant  demand  for  a  total 
elimination  of  poverty  and  universal  happiness,  suggested 
that  Liberty  be  substituted  as  the  Common  Denominator. 
The  son  protested  that  Liberty  was  too  self-evident,  too 
fundamental,  too  basic,  to  require  mentioning.  Every  gov 
ernment,  to  insure  happiness  to  the  governed,  must  be 
reared  upon  the  bed-rock  of  liberty.  The  generation  of 
Washington  had  established  that.  His  father  asked  whether 
it  really  had.  The  Civil  War,  he  reminded  his  son,  had 
been  fought  to  re-establish  the  same  issue.  Without  wish 
ing  to  appear  a  prophet  of  evil,  he  feared  that  many  more 
wars  would  have  to  be  fought  ere  the  great  principle  of 
liberty  would  be  firmly  established  beyond  reach  of  mishap 
or  malice.  Many  more  wars?  How?  When?  Where? 
demanded  the  son.  The  older  von  Estritz  looked  grave. 
He  pointed  out  to  his  son  that  there  was  Germany, 
Russia,  sundry  other  less  important  nations — were  they 
free? 

"But  Germany  has  a  constitution  now,  hasn't  she?"  the 
son  demanded. 

"Read  it  some  day  and  see  whether  she  really  has,"  was 
the  paradoxical  reply  of  the  father. 

The  elder  von  Estritz  died  at  the  close  of  a  cruelly  hot 
day  as  a  result  of  heart  failure,  before  the  son  had  had 
a  chance  to  report  on  the  suggested  reading.  The  son  was 
heart-broken.  His  mother  had  died  when  he  was  a  lad 


4  THE  HYPHEN 

of  ten,  his  grandparents  he  barely  remembered.  He  was 
without  kith  or  kin  in  the  world  save  only  those  Prussian 
cousins  who  had  cast  off  his  father  as  a  pariah  for  espousing 
the  plebeian  cause  of  liberty. 

He  finished  his  course  at  college  and  devoted  eight  or 
nine  years  to  the  silk  mills,  a  sorry  occupation  for  a  man 
with  a  Synthesis  of  Political  Principles  germinating  in 
his  head.  His  leisure  time  he  devoted  to  the  study  of 
modern  language,  his  mastery  of  which — particularly  of 
Russian — was  destined,  later  on,  to  stand  him  in  excellent 
stead.  One  day  his  chance  came  to  dispose  of  the  mills. 
He  sold  them  at  a  good  round  sum  and  began  his  tour  of 
the  world. 

England,  democracy  in  all  but  name,  was  the  first  foreign 
country  he  visited.  He  was  too  young  and  perhaps  not 
quite  big-minded  enough  to  deal  comprehendingly  with  the 
daily  stain  of  Ireland  upon  the  English  page.  Also,  he 
was  American  taught  and  the  story  of  the  Revolution  was 
not  forgotten.  He  was  neither  as  well-poised  nor  as  well- 
trained  a  thinker  as  his  father  had  been.  And  his  father's 
race  was  strong  in  him,  stronger  than  it  had  been  in  his 
father.  He  went  to  Germany  next.  The  well-ordered 
life,  flowing  along  smoothly  and  fluently  as  on  ball-bear 
ings,  caught  his  imagination.  He  liked  the  clean,  decent 
streets,  the  well-fed  appearance  of  the  population,  the 
paternal  nature  of  some  of  the  Imperial  decrees.  He  had 
the  good  luck  to  be  present  at  one  of  the  autumn  maneuvers, 
and  became  a  violent  admirer  and  apologist  of  the  German 
Army.  He  lacked  the  penetration  to  apprehend  that  be 
neath  the  glittering  surface  lurked  the  deadly  menace  of 
the  caste  system,  toward  the  strengthening  of  which  all 
currents — military,  governmental  and  educational — were 
tending.  He  forgot  the  discrepancies  and  hypocrisies  of 
the  German  Constitution  at  which  his  father  had  glanced 
in  his  immortal  paradox.  He  forgot  his  father's  suggestion 
that  he  use  Liberty  as  the  Common  Denominator  with 
which  to  test  his  Synthesis.  Was  not  happiness  enough — 
or  better?  In  confounding  happiness  with  creature  con 
tentment,  he  made  a  not  uncommon  error. 

Having  become  a  frantic  Germanophile,  his  quest  for 
the  Synthesis  was  virtually  ended  before  it  was  well  begun. 
However,  an  instinct  that  to  keep  faith  with  oneself  is  as 


PROLOGUE  5 

essential  as  to  keep  faith  with  others,  held  him  to  his 
search. 

He  had  made  many  delightful  friends  in  Germany,  and 
he  unduly  prolonged  his  sojourn  there.  The  friend  whom 
he  prized  most  highly,  who,  indeed,  seemed  to  him  the  very 
incarnation  of  all  that  friendship  should  be,  was  a  woman 
several  years  his  senioV. 

Ursula  von  Wendt  was  not  a  beautiful  woman,  although 
she  usually  passed  as  such,  for  coloring  and  complexion 
were  perfect,  and  she  had  a  superabundance  of  vitality 
and  charm,  two  great  assets  of  personality  which  never 
fail  of  effect.  She  was  delicately  modeled,  very  delicately 
for  a  daughter  of  a  race  which  usually  molds  its  women 
into  undue  corpulence  or  inelegant  gauntness.  Her  hair 
of  mellow  gold  lay  about  her  head  in  a  heavy  coil,  giving 
the  impression  of  a  brow  banded  by  a  wreath,  say  of 
laurel.  This  singular  coiffure  emphasized  the  patrician 
lines  of  her  face,  the  nose,  which  narrowly  escaped  being 
large,  the  firm,  kind  mouth,  the  finely  chiseled  determined 
chin.  Her  complexion  was  brilliantly  white  and  shell-pink 
and  her  eyes  blue  as  the  corn-flowers  which  grow  among 
the  wheat  in  German  fields. 

Ursula  von  Wendt  passed  as  a  widow  among  her  Berlin 
acquaintances,  but  one  day,  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  she 
told  Guido  von  Estritz  that  she  was  a  divorcee.  She  had 
been  married  by  her  parents  when  very  young  to  a  Ritter- 
gutsbesitzer  in  Mecklenburg.  Mecklenburg  was  at  this 
time  unique  among  the  petty  principalities,  dukedoms, 
kingdoms  and  republics  which  constitute  the  German  Em 
pire,  in  having  no  const  ution  whatever.  The  entire 
management  of  Mecklenburg's  internal  affairs  still  smacked 
strongly  of  feudalism.  Thus,  in  his  capacity  of  Ritter- 
gutsbesitzer  (Lord  Knight  of  the  Domain),  her  husband 
exercised  a  virtually  unrestricted  power  over  the  peasants 
of  his  estate.  He  was  a  harsh  man  and  ruled  the  men 
and  women  who  were  serfs  in  all  but  name  with  a  rod 
of  iron.  It  was  no  uncommon  occurrence  for  an  unfor 
tunate  peasant  found  guilty  of  poaching  to  be  condemned 
to  thirty  days'  imprisonment  in  the  Kerker  under  the  great 
courtyard  of  the  castle.  The  function  of  magistrate  accrued 
to  him,  and  as  it  was  not  deemed  improper  in  this  anti 
quated  community  that  a  man  should  appear  in  the  same 


6  THE  HYPHEN 

case  both  as  plaintiff  and  as  judge,  a  peasant  who  had 
incurred  the  displeasure  of  the  Lord  Knight  had  no  chance 
whatever  of  escaping  severe  punishment. 

One  day  a  very  old  woman  was  guilty  of  the  heinous 
offense  of  taking  some  twigs  and  branches  from  the  pre 
serves  of  the  estate  for  kindling  wood.  She  was  condemned 
to  spend  ten  days  in  the  ill-ventilated  and  unlighted 
Kerker.  In  vain  the  young  wife  of  the  Rittergutsbesitzer 
protested  against  the  inhumanity  of  shutting  up  a  woman 
of  eighty  in  a  dungeon  barren  of  every  comfort  and  every 
decency  and  lapt  in  perpetual  darkness.  Her  husband's 
will  prevailed.  At  the  end  of  five  days  the  "thief"  fell 
violently  ill  with  dysentery.  She  was  removed  to  the  hos 
pital  where  she  died  of  enteric  fever  a  few  days  later. 

This  incident  made  such  a  cruel  impression  upon  the 
sensitive  mind  of  the  young  wife  that  she  left  her  husband. 
She  had  never  loved  him.  Now  she  both  despised  and 
abhorred  him.  Failing  in  his  endeavors  to  persuade  her 
to  return  to  him,  he  divorced  her. 

After  her  divorce,  her  parents  refused  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  her.  What  else  could  perfectly  respectable 
parents  be  expected  to  do?  Fortunately  she  had  a  small 
independent  income  of  her  own.  She  moved  to  Berlin, 
and  lived  the  quiet,  retired  life  of  a  recluse  among  her 
flowers  and  her  books. 

Such  was  the  history  of  Ursula  von  Wendt. 

Guido  von  Estritz  had  not  the  remotest  suspicion  of  the 
truth.  This  woman,  still  young  and  more  than  ordinarily 
attractive  and  intelligent,  had  fallen  violently  in  love  with 
him.  She  had  been  married  off  by  her  parents  before 
understanding  the  nature  and  the  function  of  love.  Her 
husband  had  filled  her  with  spiritual  horror  and  physical 
loathing  and  after  her  divorce  she  shrank  away  from  the 
world  of  men  with  a  fixed  determination  to  keep  clear  of 
all  entanglements. 

Guido  von  Estritz,  appearing  unexpectedly  on  the  narrow 
stage  of  her  life,  seemed  to  her  like  the  harbinger  of  a  supe 
rior  race.  All  the  men  with  whom  she  had  mingled  hereto 
fore  were  officers,  Gutsbesitzer,  gentlemen  by  birth  and  by 
profession.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  thrown 
into  contact  with  a  man  who  was  not  an  avowed  mate 
rialist.  He  confided  to  her  his  Quest  of  the  Synthesis. 


PROLOGUE  7 

Only  dimly  apprehending,  she  applauded.  In  spirit  she  laid 
herself  in  the  dust  at  his  feet.  She  idealized  him.  Be 
cause  he  was  a  spiritual-minded  man,  she  saw  in  him  a 
manifestation  of  pure  spirit,  and  she  construed  his  failure 
to  pay  her  womanhood  the  supreme  tribute  as  a  further 
confirmation  of  his  unfleshly  nature.  Thus  do  some 
women  idealize  and  idolize  the  man  of  their  choice.  Per 
haps  they  feel  love  to  be  so  monstrous  a  reversal  of  every 
dictate  of  decorum  and  propriety  that,  to  make  love  tenable 
at  all,  they  invest  the  man  whom  they  love  with  the  attri 
butes  of  a  superman.  For  must  not  poor  human  frailty, 
lodging  in  the  breast  of  woman,  be  pardoned  for  capitulating 
to  a  demi-god? 

Although  Ursula  von  Wendt  failed  to  evoke  the  romantic 
passion  in  the  second  Guido,  the  young  German-American 
was  tremendously  fascinated  by  this  kindly,  high-bred 
gentlewoman.  She  was  the  soul  of  honor.  She  seemed  to 
radiate  goodness  and  integrity.  The  young  man  thought 
he  had  never  seen  those  two  jewels  shine  with  so  serene 
and  steadfast  a  light. 

Perhaps  if  he  had  guessed  the  tumult  in  that  gentle 
heart  for  which  he  was  responsible,  a  like  tumult  would 
have  been  engendered  in  his  own,  for  love  begets  love; 
and  this  history  would  never  have  been  written. 

As  it  was,  he  bade  Frau  Ursula  adieu  one  fine  morning 
with  a  blithe  cheerfulness,  little  guessing  what  sharp 
lacerations  she  was  suffering  as  she  smiled  gently  upon 
him  and  wished  him  Godspeed. 

His  quest  for  the  Synthesis  next  took  him  to  Russia — 
perfunctorily — for  had  he  not  discovered  in  Germany  the 
fount  of  all  governmental  wisdom?  He  found  Russia  in 
teresting,  alluring  and  contradictory.  In  Russia,  also,  fate 
tracked  him  down  in  the  person  of  Varvara  Alexandrovna 
Vasalov. 

The  Princess  Vasalov  was  distantly  related  to  the  house 
of  Romanov.  Born  and  bred  as  the  heiress  of  a  vast 
estate,  she  had  eschewed  luxury  and  splendor,  and  almost 
from  childhood  had  devoted  herself  to  mitigating  the 
suffering  of  her  father's  peasants.  The  contrasts  between 
the  almost  royal  opulence  which  abounded  in  her  father's 
house  and  the  dire  distress — a  distress  sharpened  to  the 
starvation  point  during  the  greater  part  of  the  year — 


8  THE  HYPHEN 

which  held  the  peasants  in  its  ruthless  grip,  struck  her 
even  as  a  child.  There  were  times  when  she  resolutely 
refused  to  eat  the  dainty  food  set  before  her  because  some 
of  her  father's  dependants  were  without  bread.  Her 
father  had  her  soundly  flogged,  deeming  flogging  a  cure 
for  compassion,  but  her  pity  was  fed  by  that  which  was 
to  elide  it.  Corporal  punishment  failing  of  the  desired 
effect,  Prince  Vasalov  packed  the  youthful  delinquent  off 
to  St.  Petersburg,  hoping  that  in  the  house  of  his  sister, 
about  whom  gravitated  a  fashionable  set  of  wits  and 
esthetes,  his  daughter  would  forget  the  vice  of  practicing 
mercy. 

The  young  girl  had  learned  her  lesson.  She  dissimu 
lated.  She  pretended  to  be  delighted  with  the  round  of 
pleasures  in  which  she,  although  much  too  young,  was 
permitted  to  join.  Clandestinely  and  at  night  she  led  her 
real  life,  the  life  of  which  her  daytimes  and  evenings  were 
mere  frivolous  shadows.  Although  only  fifteen  years  of 
age,  she  joined  the  Radical  Socialistic  Party,  and  the  man 
who  introduced  her  to  this  Party,  and  to  the  sinister  work 
which  it  had  in  hand,  was  her  cousin,  Dmitri  Stepanovich 
Vasalov. 

These  two,  Dmitri  Stepanovich  and  Varvara  Alex- 
androvna,  were  destined  to  become  the  terror  and  the 
despair  of  the  Police.  They  were  known  throughout  the 
length  and  the  breadth  of  Russia  as  "The  Little  Cousins." 
To  cloak  their  conspiratorial  activities  they  kept  in  sedulous 
touch  with  fashionable  life,  a  circumstance  which  also 
furthered  their  work  through  placing  at  their  disposal  in 
formation  unobtainable  from  any  other  strata  of  society. 
The  Police  suspected  them  for  years,  but  lacking  proof 
positive  dared  not,  because  of  their  high  rank,  hurl  an 
accusation  against  them. 

Guido  von  Estritz  met  Varvara  Alexandrovna  at  a 
fashionable  supper.  Life  is  full  of  repetitions  which, 
however  banal  and  trivial  to  the  onlooker,  are  exquisite 
and  unique  to  those  to  whom  they  come  with  the  freshness 
and  the  insouciance  of  spring.  These  two,  the  blond 
German-American,  as  respectable  and  conventional-minded 
as  any  bourgeois,  and  the  dark  Russian,  with  a  face  like 
a  flower  and  a  soul  like  a  shining  sword,  fell  in  love  with 
each  other  at  first  sight. 


PROLOGUE  9 

She  resisted  his  wooing — of  course.  He  was  regaled 
to  repletion  with  the  phrases  which  fall  from  the  lips  of 
all  high-spirited  girls,  and  which  wary  lovers  regard  as 
mere  feminine  embellishments  of  the  immortal  theme.  She 
would  never  marry.  She  had  work  to  do.  Work  the 
most  urgent  and  important.  He  demanded  to  be  told  the 
nature  of  her  work.  She  regarded  him  curiously,  won 
dering  whether  his  love  would  survive  if  she  answered  him 
truthfully.  He  repeated  his  question,  adding,  "Do  you 
wish  to  become  a  writer?  An  artist?  A  musician?" 

This  was  so  naive  that  Varvara  Alexandrovna  laughed 
outright.  She  assured  him  that  she  would  never  write  a 
novel,  paint  a  picture  or  compose  a  serenade. 

"Then  what?"  he  demanded. 

"I  said  'important  work,'  dearest.  What  are  the  most 
important  things  in  the  world?" 

"The  most  important — love." 

"To  lovers,  yes.  But  to  everybody — to  young  and  old — 
rich  and  poor?" 

"Life,"  he  said,  realizing  that  this  was  not  a  time  for 
pretty  philandering.  "And  death." 

"That  is  my  work,"  the  girl  said,  quietly.  "Life  and 
death.  I  mete  out  death  to  a  few  that  many  may  live." 

There  was  in  his  eyes  no  flash  of  comprehension.  His 
conception  of  the  Synthesis  was  not  elastic  enough  to 
embrace  anarchism.  It  existed,  as  he  knew,  but  it  did  not 
enter  into  his  scheme  of  things. 

She  realized  that  she  must  speak  more  crudely. 

"My  work,"  she  said,  "is  assassination.  I  am  a  secret 
member  of  the  Radical  Socialistic  Party,  and  we  practice 
terrorism  to  stamp  out  terrorism." 

Followed  a  stressful  half  of  an  hour.  He  began  it  by 
telling  her  bluntly  that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  be 
that  which  she  was.  She  a  Lucrezia  Borgia,  a  Catherine 
de  Medici — impossible ! 

She  interrupted  him. 

"You  mistake,"  she  said,  gently.  "We  are  of  the  race  of 
Charlotte  Corday." 

"But  murder!  Poison!  Bombs!  The  stiletto!"  He 
remembered  a  melodrama  which  he  and  a  friend  had  seen 
in  an  East  Side  theater,  and  which  had  struck  him  as  a 
huge  joke.  He  was  revolted.  It  was,  of  course,  pre- 


io  THE  HYPHEN 

posterous  to  connect  this  human  flower  with  the  mechanism 
of  violent  death.  He  had  an  inspiration. 

"You've  never  taken  an  active  part "  he  declared, 

vehemently.  "Surely,  you  have  only  arranged  things,  pulled 
the  wires,  as  we  say  in  America " 

"Allow  others  to  do  what  I  would  not  do  myself !"  she 
exclaimed,  scornfully.  "I  have  three  assassinations  to  my 
credit  now.  Before  we  are  a  month  older,  if  all  goes  well, 
there  will  be  a  fourth." 

Her  lover  shivered.  That  this  should  have  happened  to 
him,  of  all  men! 

"Why  not  attempt  peaceful  reforms — interest  people  by 
distributing  printed  propaganda  ?" 

"We  do  that,  of  course.  They  send  us  to  Siberia  for  that 
as  well  as  for  assassination,  if  we  are  found  out." 

"Why  not  appeal  to  those  in  power?"  he  suggested, 
faintly. 

"To  appeal  to  those  in  power  is  high  treason,"  she  said. 
"Siberia  is  the  remedy  for  that,  also." 

"Arguments  with  people  of  your  own  class " 

Varvara  Alexandrovna  laughed  bitterly.  Stripping  back 
her  loose  sleeve,  she  revealed  an  ugly,  deep  scar  which  ran 
down  from  her  shoulder  almost  to  the  elbow. 

"That,"  she  said,  quietly,  "was  my  own  father's  answer 
to  my  'arguments.'  Poor  man !  I  do  not  blame  him.  He 
hoped  that  blows,  administered  in  time,  might  save  me 
from  Siberia.  He  was  mistaken.  Siberia  is  my  goal  and 
nothing  can  save  me  from  it." 

Guido  von  Estritz  had  turned  very  white.  His  voice  was 
hushed  and  strained,  as  he  said: 

"You  have  suffered  enough.    Do  not  invite  martyrdom." 

"It  is  because  I,  like  others  of  my  class,  have  not  suffered 
at  all  that  I  must  be  a  martyr,"  she  said,  darkly.  "Some 
day,  if  you  remain  with  us  long  enough,  you  will  stumble 
into  some  snag  of  Russian  life  which  will  convince  you  that 
my  party  is  right.  And  then  you  will  come  to  me  and  beg 
me  to  be  permitted  to  throw  the  next  bomb." 

"Never !  I  believe  in  peaceful  methods — in  evolution,  not 
revolution." 

"Peaceful  methods!"  she  exclaimed,  scornfully.  "Time 
was  when  you  had  a  revolution  of  your  own.  That  was  a 
long  time  ago.  Ours  may  be  long  in  coming.  But  it  must 


PROLOGUE  ii 

come.  It  will  come.  No  country  ever  struck  off  its  fetters 
without  a  revolution." 

"Instead  of  'peaceful'  methods,  I  should  have  said 
'legitimate'  methods,"  said  her  lover,  humbly. 

"Legitimate "  the  girl  laughed.  "That's  delicious. 

Legitimate  methods  of  fighting  the  Russian  government. 
Why,  dearest,  that  is  precisely  what  we  are  fighting  for — 
for  legitimate  methods,  and  so  long  as  they  are  withheld 
we  must  fight  from  ambush — wage  guerrilla  warfare  with 
bomb  and  knife !" 

How  would  all  this  fit  into  the  Synthesis?  Guido  von 
Estritz  was  an  ardent  lover  and  wooer,  but  he  was  also  a 
student  of  political  science.  Large  beads  of  perspiration 
stood  on  his  brow.  He  foresaw  the  defeat  both  of  lover 
and  student.  He  resumed  urging  his  suit.  He  told  her 
of  the  Synthesis.  She  applauded  the  idea,  appending  that 
theories  shall  profit  humanity  little  so  long  as  so  much 
practical  work  remains  to  be  done. 

"Marry  me!"  he  cried,  her  dark  beauty  suddenly  smiting 
him  with  all  a  lover's  anguish.  "Come  with  me  to  America 
— where  all  are  free." 

"Never,"  she  said.  "That  is  why  the  Old  World  lies 
sick  unto  death.  The  fiery  spirits  embrace  the  easiest  way 
to  freedom — to  comparative  freedom — and  emigrate  to 
America.  I  will  not  desert  my  post.  I  will  fight,  fight, 
fight  and  kill,  kill,  kill  until  I'm  caught  and  shipped  to 
Siberia  or  until  I've  acomplished  our  revolution." 

"But,"  pleaded  the  man,  "is  love  to  have  no  share  in 
your  life?" 

"Ah,  love !"  she  said,  smiling  a  wise,  sad,  wan  little  smile. 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  passionately.  His  heart 
was  too  full  for  utterance.  His  profound  agitation  pled 
for  him  as  no  word  could  have  done.  There  was  a  gentle 
ness  about  this  blond,  philosophical,  moral  lover  of  hers 
that  drew  all  her  fire  and  flame  into  his  orbit.  It  aroused 
subtler  emotions  as  well.  She  was  now  nineteen  years 
old,  and  the  maternal  instinct,  in  which  she  was  rich,  had 
hitherto  been  lavished  so  generously  upon  all  the  children 
of  men  that  it  had  become  diffuse  and  vagrant.  The  man's 
unexpressed  passion  gave  it  focus  and  point. 

"I  cannot  marry  you,"  she  said,  impulsively,  "because 
a  man's  wife  and  the  children  she  bears  him  belong  to 


12  THE  HYPHEN 

him.  They  must  live  his  life,  whatever  that  may  be.  And 
I  am  condemned  to  live  in  perpetual  jeopardy.  But  I  love 
you,  and  I  have  a  right  to  my  love  and  to  yours.  There 
fore — take  me!  But  our  child  must  belong  to  me  and  to 
the  Cause!" 

He  shrank  back  as  if  she  had  struck  him  in  the  face. 
Was  this  lasciviousness  ?  Or  a  momentary  lapse  from 
virtue?  He  was  a  gallant  gentleman  and  she  the  last 
woman  in  the  world  whom  he  would  have  harmed. 
Presently  a  whole  world  of  intuitions  came  flashing  upon 
him.  Moral,  immoral  or  unmoral,  her  courage  was  mag 
nificent  !  How  insignificant  a  thing  was  the  Synthesis  com 
pared  with  this?  Thought  was  to  have  been  his  medium. 
Human  flesh  and  human  spirit  were  to  be  hers.  He  was 
overwhelmed.  He  might  have  been  swayed  by  her  more 
volcanic  temperament,  but  he  also  had  the  parental  instinct. 
That  saved  him.  No  child  of  his  should  be  predestined  to 
martyrdom. 

Her  prophecy  had  been  correct.  Before  another  week 
had  elapsed,  Tersehogen,  Chief  of  Police  of  a  neighboring 
city,  was  assassinated.  There  was  a  traitor  among  the 
conspirators.  Varvara  Alexandrovna  had  gambled  with 
Siberia  once  too  often.  Within  twenty-four  hours  after 
the  throwing  of  the  bomb,  the  Princess  Vasalov  was  ar 
rested  for  the  murder  of  Tersehogen.  She  languished  in 
prison  for  two  years.  In  vain  her  frantic  lover  sought  to 
secure  her  pardon.  Finally,  after  a  perfunctory  trial,  she 
was  sentenced  to  Siberia  for  ten  years. 

Guido  von  Estritz  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  save  the 
woman  he  loved  from  her  horrible  fate.  He  invoked  the 
aid  of  the  American  Minister  in  St.  Petersburg,  who  gave 
him  what  letters  of  introduction  he  could.  The  prospective 
author  of  the  Synthesis  saw  functionaries  of  state,  of  the 
law,  of  the  police.  Without  avail.  Varvara  Alexandrovna 
had  been  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  of  the  Powers  that  be  too 
long.  To  Siberia  she  must  go. 

Did  she  regret  having  elected  exile  in  Siberia  to  wife- 
hood  in  America?  Who  shall  say?  Von  Estritz  came  to 
see  her  in  prison  as  often  as  he  had  a  ray  of  hope  to  hold 
out  to  her.  But  he  was  not  there  to  bid  her  farewell  when, 
at  dawn,  one  morning,  she  and  a  dozen  other  women  con 
victs  clad  in  the  coarse  gray  linen  shirt  and  skirt,  the 


PROLOGUE  13 

unshapely  black  slippers,  the  long  gray  overcoat  with  the 
hideous  yellow  patch  on  the  back  of  which  the  dress  of  a 
convict  consists,  were  led  out  of  the  dismal  prison  to  the 
dirty  train  in  which  they  were  to  begin  their  long  journey. 

Prisons  and  railroad  cars,  all  alike  ill-ventilated,  dirty 
and  unheated,  followed  each  other  in  rapid  succession. 
The  monotony  of  these  repetitions  was  varied  only  by  long 
cruel  tramps  over  snow-clad  roads.  Varvara  Alexan- 
drovna's  footgear  was  inadequate.  The  snow  soaked 
through  it.  The  rough  stones  of  the  road  tore  it.  Her  feet, 
frost-bitten  and  bleeding,  were  an  incessant  torture,  an 
almost  unendurable  torment. 

An  itinerant  peddler  of  the  Gospels  and  Tracts,  his  heavy 
wooden  box  slung  by  a  strap  across  his  shoulders,  who 
was  traveling  in  the  same  direction  as  the  convicts  and  had 
asked  permission  of  the  guard  to  join  the  party,  took  pity 
on  her  and  bought  her  a  pair  of  fleece-lined  boots,  which 
he  handed  her,  bowing  obsequiously,  for  the  common  people 
of  Russia  feel  a  respect  verging  on  veneration  for  "polit 
icals."  This  kindness  on  the  part  of  a  man  who  himself 
was  desperately  poor,  touched  the  unhappy  woman  deeply. 

Villagers  also  showed  them  kindness  by  feeding  them  and 
giving  them  warm  undergarments.  One  old  peasant,  moved 
by  the  youth  and  the  beauty  of  Varvara  Alexandrovna 
and  several  other  women  convicts,  asked  permission  of 
their  guards  to  drive  them  in  his  ox-cart  to  the  town 
where  they  were  to  entrain.  When  they  reached  their 
destination,  the  man  produced  small  loaves  of  bread  which 
he  distributed  among  the  convicts.  Varvara  Alexandrovna, 
upon  receiving  her  loaf,  perceived  that  a  tiny  scroll  of 
paper  protruded  from  the  side  of  the  bread.  She  pulled 
it  out  and  secreted  it  in  the  high  boots  which  the  peddler 
had  given  her  until  she  had  a  chance  to  read  it.  The  paper 
contained  one  line  only:  "Be  of  good  cheer.  Guido." 

After  that  her  courage  never  flagged.  The  others 
wondered  at  her  unflinching  fortitude  in  the  face  of  almost 
insufferable  hardships. 

One  by  one  the  other  exiles  dropped  off  to  be  taken  to 
their  respective  villages.  The  itinerant  peddler  also  left 
them.  Verkoyansk,  Varvara  Alexandrovna's  destination, 
was  too  far  north  for  a  poor  vender  of  Holy  Pictures  and 
Gospels,  so  he  told  the  Guard  in  Varvara  Alexandrovna's 


I4  THE  HYPHEN 

presence,  asking  leave,  at  the  same  time,  to  present  her 
with  a  small  Testament.  She  did  not  offer  to  pay  him, 
fearing  to  offend  him.  What  was  her  amazement,  on 
opening  the  book,  to  find  that  it  had  a  pocket  pasted  against 
the  lower  inside  cover,  which  contained  a  thousand  roubles 
in  small  bills.  Varvara  Alexandrovna's  heart  almost 
stopped  beating  with  joy.  Had  the  peddler  been  an  agent 
sent  by  Guido,  or  had  he  been  Guido  himself?  She  could 
not  tell.  She  contented  herself  in  patience,  knowing  that 
she  was  not  forsaken  by  the  man  she  loved  more  passion 
ately  and  more  tenderly  than  ever. 

For  the  last  ten  days  Varvara  Alexandrovna  traveled 
alone  with  the  Guard.  At  sunset  one  evening  in  October 
he  delivered  her  to  the  Storosta  at  Verkoyansk  for  safe 
keeping. 

When  the  inhabitants  of  the  village  heard  that  their 
"political"  was  an  educated  woman  and  could  cipher  and 
read  and  write,  their  joy  knew  no  bounds.  The  principal 
shopkeeper  of  the  little  settlement  had  recently  lost  his 
bookkeeper,  and  as  the  entire  community  had  depended 
upon  this  clerk  to  read  and  write  their  letters,  and  to  keep 
them  posted  on  news  from  the  outside  world  by  reading 
the  newspapers  to  them,  his  death  had  cause  something  like 
consternation  throughout  the  town.  Varvara  Alexandrovna 
thus  found  herself  with  an  occupation  before  she  knew 
where  she  was  to  lay  her  head  that  night. 

The  pope — the  village  priest — who  had  a  large  family 
of  children,  offered  to  take  her  in.  His  wife  was  an 
illiterate  woman,  but  she  was  clean,  kindly  and  good- 
tempered.  Varvara  Alexandrovna  considered  herself  for 
tunate. 

Autumn  drifted  into  winter,  bringing  her  work  and  pay 
but  no  word  from  her  lover.  What  had  become  of  him? 
Why  had  he  left  her  after  following  her  so  far?  Did  he 
intend  to  come  to  her  in  spring,  after  making  all  arrange 
ments  for  her  escape?  The  virtually  unguarded  condition 
in  which  she  was  allowed  to  roam  at  large  would  make 
escape  comparatively  easy.  Once  or  twice  she  accompanied 
the  pope's  wife  to  neighboring  villages,  and  occasionally 
she  accompanied  the  shopkeeper  on  short  business  expedi 
tions  which  required  her  services  as  scribe.  She  thus  be 
came  familiar  with  the  nearby  topography.  She  was  earn- 


PROLOGUE  15 

ing  all  she  needed  for  her  support.  She  had  left  the 
pope's  house  after  a  few  weeks,  renting  a  small  cabin 
quite  near  the  shop  where  she  spent  most  of  her  time. 
The  Russian  government  allows  its  exiles  a  small  sum  for 
their  upkeep.  The  villagers  kept  her  in  food  and  in  fuel 
in  return  for  her  letter-writing  and  newspaper-reading,  and 
the  shopkeeper  paid  her  fairly  well  for  her  services.  Russia 
does  not  allow  her  exiles  to  follow  former  avocations  in 
Siberia,  but  as  Varvara  Alexandrovna's  pursuits  had  been 
those  of  revolutionist  and  society  belle,  the  shopkeeper 
argued  that  he  was  transgressing  no  law  in  employing  the 
"political"  with  whom  Heaven  had  blessed  his  village. 

She  was  thus,  in  a  small  way,  quite  prosperous.  The 
thousand  roubles  remained  where  she  had  found  them  in 
the  pocket  of  the  cover  of  the  little  Testament.  She  de 
cided  to  save  what  money  she  could  in  addition  through 
the  winter,  and  if  Guido  did  not  return  before  spring,  she 
was  determined  to  make  a  dash  for  liberty  in  April  or 
early  in  May.  All  winter  the  temperature  was  below  the 
freezing  point  of  mercury.  It  was  impossible  for  anyone 
to  attempt  a  long  journey  before  spring. 

Her  greatest  anxiety  was  caused  by  the  necessity  of 
passports.  How  to  attain  them  unaided  she  did  not  know. 

Her  hour  of  deliverance  was  closer  at  hand  than  she 
knew. 

One  day  in  March,  from  her  window  in  the  shop,  she 
saw  all  the  women  in  the  village  flocking  down  the  street. 
She  left  her  desk,  and  wrapping  her  shawl  about  her 
shoulders,  stepped  outside  the  door. 

"Hurry,  Varvara  Alexandrovna,"  one  of  the  women 
called  to  her,  "a  merchant  has  come  with  jewelry — such 
jewelry!  And  so  cheap.  See,  yonder  he  stands,  near 
the  chapel." 

Varvara  Alexandrovna's  heart  began  to  beat  violently. 
Looking  in  the  direction  indicated,  she  recognized  the 
itinerant  peddler  who  had  bought  her  the  fleece-lined  boots. 
Was  it  Guido  himself?  She  could  hardly  believe  it.  The 
disguise  was  so  perfect. 

"Jewelry,"  he  was  saying,  "jewelry,  and  so  cheap!  My 
home  is  thirty  miles  away  and  I  must  close  out  because 
my  wife  is  dying.  I  saw  her  in  a  vision.  Jewelry!  And 
one  or  two  tracts!" 


16  THE  HYPHEN 

"Let  me  see  the  tracts!"  said  Varvara  Alexandrovna. 
She  was  so  excited  that  she  could  barely  speak,  for  she 
had  recognized  Guido  von  Estritz's  voice.  While  under 
surveillance  of  the  guards,  he  had  travestied  his  voice  as 
well  as  his  appearance,  but  now  he  had  spoken  naturally. 

He  handed  her  the  tract,  open  at  the  fly-leaf,  across 
which  was  written:  "Give  no  sign  that  you  recognize  me. 
I  did  not  dare  follow  before  because  I  feared  to  arouse 
suspicion.  I  have  everything — money,  a  guide,  a  relay 
of  sleighs  along  the  entire  route.  Also  the  necessary  pass 
ports.  Meet  me  to-morrow  night  at  eleven,  thirty  rods  down 
the  road  from  the  last  house.  Guido." 

In  the  tumultuous  onrush  of  emotions  that  followed  the 
reading  of  this  message,  Varvara  Alexandrovna  neither 
paid  for  the  tract  nor  returned  it.  The  women  were  too 
engrossed  in  paying  five,  ten,  fifteen  or  twenty  kopeks  for 
the  cheap  brass  "jewelry"  to  notice  her  defection. 

The  escape  was  effected  as  planned.  Guido  had  arranged 
for  every  detail.  Relays  waited  for  them  in  every  village, 
and  they  traveled  by  day  and  night  until  they  arrived  at 
Irkutsk,  from  whence  they  continued  their  travels  by  rail. 
Varvara  Alexandrovna  would  fain  have  lingered  in  St. 
Petersburg  to  obtain  news  of  her  cousin  Dmitri  Stepano- 
vich,  but  Guido  would  not  brook  an  hour's  delay.  He  fell 
ill  soon  after  they  left  St.  Petersburg,  but  although  he 
suffered  racking  pains  in  the  chest  and  throat,  he  refused 
to  tarry,  and  pressed  on.  Finally  they  crossed  the  German 
frontier.  Von  Estritz  was  so  ill  by  this  time  that  he  had 
to  be  carried  from  the  railroad  depot  to  the  hotel,  and 
months  elapsed  before  he  recovered  from  the  effects  of 
his  pleurisy  and  pneumonia. 

Not  a  word  had  been  said  all  this  time  about  marriage. 
At  first  Varvara  Alexandrovna  ascribed  her  lover's  strange 
diffidence  in  renewing  his  suit  to  a  sense  of  delicacy.  She 
conceived  that  having  rendered  her  the  tremendous  service 
of  rescuing  her,  he  did  not  care  to  exact  payment  by  claim 
ing  her  hand.  Presently,  however,  a  subtler  interpretation 
of  his  motive  in  preserving  silence  dawned  upon  her.  She 
saw  Guide's  physician  privately,  and  implored  him  to  tell 
her  the  truth.  She  had  some  difficulty  in  extracting  it. 

"There's  no  immediate  danger,"  the  doctor  replied 
evasively. 


PROLOGUE  17 

"That  means  that  there  is  danger,  doesn't  it?"  she 
queried. 

"Madame,"  retorted  the  physician,  "we  must  all  die.  He 
may  outlive  you." 

"How  long  do  you  give  him?"  the  woman  demanded, 
bluntly. 

The  doctor  regarded  her  curiously. 

"Tell  me  the  truth,"  she  begged. 

"With  care,  cheerful  surroundings,  happiness  and  the 
right  climate  he  may  live  three  years  more.  Possibly  four. 
No  longer.  He  must  have  suffered  prolonged  exposure 
last  winter  in  very  severe  cold." 

Varvara  Alexandrovna  nodded. 

"He  froze  the  tips  of  his  lungs,"  the  doctor  continued. 
"When  the  warmer  weather  came  pleurisy  and  pneumonia 
set  in.  For  some  reason  he  neglected  himself,  and  now 
he  must  pay  the  piper  as  all  of  us  must  who  defy  the 
laws  of  nature." 

"Does  he  know?" 

"I  have  not  told  him." 

"Then  don't — for  the  present." 

The  doctor  looked  at  her  curiously.  He  nodded  cotn- 
prehendingly. 

"Very  well,"  he  said. 

Varvara  Alexandrovna  was  typical  of  the  women  of  her 
race.  She  was  passionate  and  tender-hearted,  yet  she 
rarely  allowed  herself  to  be  swayed  by  anything  but  reason. 
She  mistrusted  all  instincts  excepting  the  instinct  of 
patriotism.  Other  instincts  she  held  to  be  instincts  of  the 
flesh.  Patriotism  alone  was  an  instinct  of  the  soul.  This 
deep-rooted  conviction  had  been  the  source  of  her  strength 
in  turning  away  from  love  and  dedicating  herself  anew 
to  her  "Cause."  She  was  a  woman  who,  had  she  fallen  in 
love  with  a  tyrant,  would  have  assassinated  him  as  cheer 
fully  as  if  he  had  aroused  in  her  no  instinct  save  that  of 
contempt. 

She  now  found  herself  confronted  by  a  situation  in 
finitely  more  delicate.  Gratitude  and  love  pulled  her  in  one 
direction.  Duty  pointed  in  another.  Presently,  by  clever 
manipulations  of  the  unknown  quantities  in  this  algebraic 
problem,  she  had  lined  up  duty  alongside  the  two  other 


18  THE  HYPHEN 

factors.  There  was  no  possibility  of  standing  out  against 
such  a  mathematical  preponderance. 

That  very  evening  she  approached  Guido  von  Estritz 
on  the  subject. 

"Dearest,"  she  said,  "you  risked  your  life  and  abandoned 
your  life-work  to  rescue  me.  I  cannot  doubt  your  love. 
Why  do  you  not  ask  me  to  marry  you?" 

"You  rejected  me  before,"  von  Estritz  replied,  speaking 
with  great  deliberation.  "I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that 
you  have  changed  your  mind  about  certain  aspects  of  mar 
riage.  It  is  probably  your  desire  to  remain  a  free  agent." 

"I  am  a  free  agent  no  longer,"  Varvara  Alexandrovna 
replied.  "There's  a  price  upon  my  head.  Were  I  re-taken 
now,  they  would  sentence  me  to  solitary  confinement." 

"You  mean — you  are  willing  to  abandon  Russia?"  her 
lover  demanded,  incredulously. 

"There  is  nothing  else  to  do,"  she  replied.  "If  we  marry, 
we  may  have  a  daughter  who  will  take  up  my  work  where 
I  have  laid  it  down." 

"If  we  marry,"  said  the  man,  "we  may  have  a  son  who 
will  carry  on  my  labor,  where  it  has  dropped  from  me." 

They  stared  at  each  other,  glowingly  conscious  that  the 
same  thought  was  germinating  simultaneously  in  both  their 
minds.  He  saw  in  Germany  the  apotheosis  of  government, 
and  detested  the  anarchic  trend  of  Russia.  She  contended 
that  anarchistic  socialism — a  complete  non-interference 
with  the  individual — was  the  highest  type  of  government, 
being  no  government  at  all.  She  loathed  the  pseudo-social 
ism  and  pseudo- freedom  of  Germany  as  much  as  he — 
calling  it  by  another  name — adored  it. 

This  mutual  thought  of  theirs,  as  quickly  as  it  was  born, 
became  an  obsession. 

A  child,  born  of  spiritual  natures  so  conflicting  and 
divergent,  would  be  wiser  than  they,  must  be  predestined 
to  discover  the  Golden  Mean,  would,  by  the  very  essence 
of  his  nature,  solve  the  problem  of  the  Political  Synthesis! 
Neither  perceived  the  sublime  absurdity  of  expecting  two 
utterly  dissimilar  and  opposing  currents  to  unite  them 
selves  in  a  third  person  and  hereafter  to  flow  as  one. 

Now  they  understood — or  thought  they  did — why  the 
centuries  had  conspired  for  this  moment.  Everything  that 
had  befallen — her  exile,  their  flight,  Guide's  illness — had 


PROLOGUE  19 

been  propitious,  had  been  a  fortuitous  preparation  for  this 
supreme  moment.  Their  love  was  to  be  no  mere  vulgar 
gratification  of  self.  It  was  to  be  the  solvent  of  all  the 
ills  of  humanity.  Their  babe,  as  yet  unborn  and  unbe- 
gotten,  was  to  be  the  legislative  regenerator  of  mankind. 

Ludicrous  folly  or  divine  wisdom?  If  motive  counts  for 
anything,  then  the  element  of  divinity  was  not  lacking  in 
their  fantastic  hope.  There  was  in  their  ambition  for  a 
politically  eugenic  babe  nothing  pretentious  or  vainglorious. 
There  was  almost  humility  in  their  conception  of  them 
selves  as  two  vessels  which  were  to  pass  on  the  electric 
charge  of  life  in  a  clarified,  intensified,  resurrected  form! 
They  were  willing  to  repeat  the  sacrifice  of  Isaac.  They 
were  offering  their  conjoined  flesh  and  spirit  to  the  Divine 
Being  for  experimental  purposes. 

They  were  married  quietly  the  next  week.  The  follow 
ing  winter  they  spent  in  Italy.  But  von  Estritz's  cough 
did  not  improve,  and  when  spring  came,  bringing  with  it 
the  expectation  of  a  child,  the  young  husband  longed  for 
home — for  Old  Glory  and  the  U.  S.  A.  His  wife  was 
amazed.  He  had  expressed  such  love  and  admiration  for 
Germany  and  German  institutions  that  she  had  come  to 
regard  her  husband  as  a  spiritual  expatriate.  She  was, 
however,  entirely  satisfied  to  have  her  child  born  on 
American  soil.  It  was  neutral  ground.  Accordingly  they 
sailed  for  New  York  early  in  summer. 

Women  there  are  who  prepare  spiritually  for  the  advent 
of  their  offspring  by  surrounding  themselves  with  beauti 
ful  pictures,  scriptural  passages,  sweet  music.  The  von 
Estritzes  prepared  for  the  coming  of  the  Synthetic  Babe 
by  talking  political  economy.  Varvara  Alexandrovna  had 
every  desire  to  play  fair  with  her  husband  in  dowering  the 
child.  They  talked  endlessly  of  Russia  and  Germany,  for 
getting  apparently  that  in  addition  to  those  two  extreme 
tendencies  there  was  a  host  of  other  intermediate  forms  of 
government. 

The  little  lad  whose  coming  had  been  looked  for  by  his 
parents  as  a  world-shaking  event  was  born  in  January.  He 
was  a  frail,  weak  little  creature,  and  it  was  doubtful  at 
first  whether  he  would  survive.  But  the  hopes  of  his 
parents  were  not  to  be  dashed.  He  lived,  although  he  re 
mained  weak  and  ailing.  His  parents  reminded  each  other 


20  THE  HYPHEN 

that  some  of  the  world's  greatest  men  had  been  exceed 
ingly  frail  in  childhood.  There  was  Napoleon;  there  was 
Alexander  Hamilton ;  there  was  Alexander  Pope,  the  Wasp 
of  Twickingham. 

"Our  son  shall  be  the  Wasp  of  Russia,"  said  the  child's 
mother. 

"Our  son  shall  be  the  Wasp  of  the  World,"  said  the 
child's  father. 

"It  comes  to  the  same,"  said  Varvara  Alexandrovna. 
"Russia  shall  regenerate  the  world.  It  is  her  mission.  It 
is  our  son's  mission.  Russia's  mission  and  our  son's  are 
identical. 

Von  Estritz  died  the  following  June.  He  had  been  too 
ill  to  carry  through  an  investigation  which  he  had  begun 
regarding  the  exact  status  of  his  wife.  As  the  wife  of  an 
American,  she,  of  course,  automatically  changed  her  na 
tionality  from  Russian  to  American.  But  she  was  guilty 
of  four  assassinations.  It  was  an  open  question  whether, 
under  the  existing  extradition  treaties,  Russia  might  not 
at  any  time  claim  her,  or  at  least,  whether  on  re-entering 
Russia  Varvara  Alexandrovna  was  not  liable  to  arrest. 

The  young  widow  decided  to  take  up  the  investigation 
where  her  husband  had  dropped  it.  She  went  to  Geneva 
the  following  autumn  with  her  little  son,  the  third  Guido, 
and  their  pursued  her  inquiries.  A  former  friend  of 
her  family,  a  Russian  of  high  birth  and  considerable 
social  prestige,  who  was  returning  to  Russia,  offered  to 
act  as  her  mediator.  Months  elapsed.  Then  the  Russian 
noble  returned  with  glad  tidings.  The  Czar  had  pardoned 
his  distant  kinswoman. 

There  was,  consequently,  nothing  to  debar  Varvara 
Alexandrovna  from  returning  to  Russia.  The  agreement 
between  husband  and  wife  regarding  their  son's  education 
had  been  as  unique  as  the  rest  of  their  story.  The  boy 
was  to  be  educated  alternately  in  Germany  and  in  Russia 
— providing  that  Varvara  Alexandrovna  might  re-enter  the 
land  of  her  birth  without  courting  re-imprisonment — in 
rotating  periods  of  from  three  to  four  years.  Madame  von 
Estritz  chose  to  begin  her  son's  education  in  her  own 
country.  She  wished  his  infant  impressions  to  be  received 
in  Holy  Russia. 

A  terrible  surprise  awaited  her.     At  the  fourth  railroad 


PROLOGUE  21 

station  at  which  her  train  stopped  after  entering  Russia, 
several  Cossacks  boarded  the  train  and  arrested  her.  In 
vain  she  protested.  In  vain  she  told  them  that  she  was 
an  American  citizen.  The  Russian  nobleman  had  been  a 
spy  and  the  Czar's  pardon  pure  fiction  and  a  decoy  to  lure 
her  across  the  border.  She  and  her  babe  were  roughly 
dragged  from  the  train  and  shut  up  in  a  filthy  cell  in  the 
local  prison. 

She  bribed  the  jailer  to  mail  a  letter  for  her  to  the 
American  Consul.  The  man  accepted  the  money  and  the 
letter  but  never  mailed  the  latter.  As  the  days  went  by, 
without  bringing  the  expected  relief,  Varvara  Alexandrovna 
verged  on  madness.  She  herself  had  endured  worse  things 
— but  was  the  legislative  regeneration  of  humanity  to  be 
brought  to  nought  through  the  untimely  death  of  her  babe? 
The  mother  instinct  became  rampant.  The  cell  swarmed 
with  vermin  of  every  description.  It  was  impossible  to 
obtain  warm  water  to  bathe  the  child.  But  she  had  no 
soap  to  wash  his  garments  properly.  Her  greatest  vigilance 
failed  to  keep  his  wasted  body  free  from  body-lice.  The 
child  cried  incessantly.  She  dared  not  leave  him  out  of 
her  arm  for  a  moment  at  night  for  fear  that  a  rat  might 
attack  him. 

One  day,  when  she  had  laid  the  child  down  to  wash  out 
some  linen,  a  rat  did  attack  the  infant.  The  jailer  hap 
pened  to  enter  the  cell  at  the  moment.  He  was  not  desti 
tute  of  humanity.  Seeing  the  rat  on  the  baby's  back  he 
struck  at  the  rodent  with  a  heavy  stick.  The  rat  sprang 
aside,  and  the  stick  struck  full  force  upon  the  child's  spine. 
The  man,  overcome  with  grief  at  this  untoward  result  of 
his  intended  kindness,  prevailed  upon  a  young  physician 
to  come  and  attend  the  child.  The  young  doctor  told 
Varvara  Alexandrovna  frankly  that  the  child's  back  had 
been  cruelly  injured,  and  that  the  child  would  be  crippled 
if  he  did  not  receive  proper  medical  attention  and  nursing. 
He  was  a  humane  young  man,  and  almost  wept  with  pity 
at  the  plight  of  the  unfortunate  woman  and  her  child. 
But  he  was  a  Jew,  and  was  greatly  disliked  because  of  his 
race  and  therefore  was  unable  to  help  her  in  any  way. 

Varvara  Alexandrovna,  after  that,  was  tempted  to 
strangle  her  babe.  She  ran  the  entire  gamut  of  human 
suffering  in  the  dark  days  that  followed.  But  what  she 


22  THE  HYPHEN 

had  done  in  hatred  she  could  not  do  in  love.  She  could 
not  kill  her  own  flesh  and  blood. 

In  her  extremity  she  bethought  herself  of  Ursula  von 
Wendt,  the  German  friend  of  her  husband  of  whom  he 
had  spoken  with  such  affection  and  with  whom  he  had 
corresponded  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

Her  woman's  prescience  told  her  that  this  woman  had 
loved  her  husband.  Good  she  knew  her  to  be  from  her 
husband's  description  and  from  the  tenor  of  her  letters. 
She  divined  furthermore  that  a  woman  might  at  first  harden 
her  heart  against  the  child  of  the  man  she  had  loved  be 
cause  it  was  not  her  own,  but  that  ultimately  she  must 
love  it  because  it  was  his. 

Varvara  Alexandrovna  wrote  Frau  Ursula.  The  jailer, 
still  conscience-stricken,  mailed  the  letter.  Frau  Ursula, 
on  receiving  the  heart-broken  appeal,  lost  not  a  minute's 
time.  She  was  eating  her  dinner  when  Madame  von 
Estritz's  letter  was  handed  her.  She  did  not  wait  to  finish 
her  meal,  but  hastily  packed  a  small  bag  and  got  herself 
into  traveling  gear.  She  had  that  day  drawn  her  quarterly 
allowance,  so  she  was  well  supplied  with  funds. 

The  meeting  that  took  place  between  the  two  women  who 
had  so  passionately  loved  the  same  man  was  one  to  touch 
the  imagination.  Without  speaking,  Varvara  Alexandrovna 
drew  her  visitor  to  a  corner  of  the  cell  where  a  little  light 
filtered  through  a  grating.  Without  a  word  she  showed 
Frau  Ursula  the  child's  bruised  back,  the  flea-bites  which 
disfigured  his  face,  the  uncared-for  little  body.  Then,  still 
silent,  she  laid  the  child  in  Frau  Ursula's  arms. 

Frau  Ursula  was  appalled.  In  spite  of  Varvara  Alex- 
androvna's  frantic  letter,  she*had  not  been  prepared  to  see 
what  she  saw.  She  had  taken  it  for  granted — as  adoring 
women  will — that  the  child  would  be  a  miniature  present 
ment  of  his  father.  The  black-haired,  black-eyed,  ema 
ciated,  cadaverous  little  wretch,  who  wailed  incessantly, 
was  not  the  blue-eyed,  fair-haired  baby  of  which  she  had 
dreamed.  But  the  horror  of  the  situation,  and  the  distress 
of  the  whining,  puny  infant,  were  too  cruelly  real  to  admit 
of  sentimental  repining.  Ursula  von  Wendt,  in  a  sudden 
access  of  divine  pity,  pressed  the  babe  to  her  heart  and 
kissed  the  wasted,  unlovely  little  cheek. 


PROLOGUE  23 

"You  will  take  him — care  for  him?"  Madame  von 
Estritz  demanded  in  her  broken  German. 

Frau  Ursula  nodded.  She  could  not  speak.  Her  throat 
was  rigid. 

"I  have  bribed  the  jailer,"  Varvara  Alexandrovna  con 
tinued,  "he  will  pretend  not  to  see  the  baby  when  you  take 
him  away." 

"But  for  you  also,"  said  Ursula  von  Wendt,  speaking 
for  the  first  time,  "something  must  be  done.  The  American 
Consul  should  be  notified." 

Varvara  Alexandrovna  shook  her  head  in  violent  nega 
tion.  A  fortnight  ago  she  would  have  been  willing  and 
eager  to  obtain  her  liberty  on  any  plea.  Now,  after  the 
crowning  inhumanity  to  which  her  babe  had  been  sub 
jected,  she  had  only  one  idea — to  fight,  to  fight,  to  fight ! 
Siberia?  She  had  escaped  once  with  her  husband's  aid. 
She  would  escape  again.  Solitary  confinement  ?  She  would 
escape  on  the  way.  Her  soul  was  like  a  flaming  torch — 
the  thought  of  failure  was  inadmissible.  And  after  her 
escape  she  would  preach  such  sermons  as  had  never  been 
heard  since  the  world  began.  She  would  preach  openly, 
eschewing  henceforth  all  secret  methods.  The  very  high 
priests  of  the  iniquitous  Russian  police  system  would  turn 
converts  to  the  Cause.  She  would  set  all  Russia  aflame. 

Frau  Ursula  listened  to  the  passionate  outburst  and 
marveled.  Did  this  woman  really  love  her  child?  She 
could  not  doubt  it,  since  her  wild  words  were  caused  by 
her  outraged  maternal  instincts.  Also  she  remembered  that 
frenzied  letter  of  appeal  which  had  brought  her  hot-haste 
to  Russia.  Ursula  von  Wendt  had  felt,  in  laying  it  away 
among  the  heliotrope-scented  handkerchiefs  of  her  orderly 
top  bureau  drawer,  as  if  she  were  laying  away  a  crushed 
and  bleeding  human  heart. 

And  so  the  strange  bargain  was  made  between  the  two 
women  who  until  this  hour  had  been  strangers  and  who, 
temperamentally,  were  the  very  antithesis  of  each  other. 

Frau  Ursula,  showing  unwonted  energy,  contrived  to  in 
terest  both  the  German  and  the  American  Consul  in  the 
case.  Innumerable  documents  were  drawn  up — affidavits, 
power  of  attorneys,  letters  of  introduction.  At  the  end 
of  a  few  days,  Varvara  Alexandrovna,  as  executor  of  her 
husband's  large  fortune,  had  instructed  her  attorneys  in 


24  THE  HYPHEN 

New  York  to  administer  the  estate  for  her  son  until  his 
coming  of  age.  The  annual  income  was  to  be  handed  over 
to  Frau  Ursula,  who  was  also  to  receive  outright  a  gift 
of  fifty  thousand  dollars.  Privately  she  acquainted  Frau 
Ursula  with  the  circumstances  and  hopes  governing  little 
Guide's  birth.  Frau  Ursula  had  never  heard  of  a  syn 
thetic  baby  before,  and  would  have  thought  the  entire 
yarn  the  wildest  farrago  of  nonsense  she  had  ever  heard 
if  the  man  whom  she  had  loved  and  revered  had  not  had 
part  in  it. 

Meanwhile  the  American  Consul,  a  small,  dapper  man  of 
no  great  ability,  was  floundering  about  in  a  sea  of  doubt.  He 
was  not  quite  certain  what  course  to  pursue.  His  colleague, 
the  German  Consul,  urged  him  strongly  to  communicate 
the  story  to  the  American  Minister  at  St.  Petersburg.  That 
was  all  very  well,  but  the  American  Consul  was  not  a 
trouble-hunter.  Since  the  woman  herself  begged  him  not  to 
advance  her  claims  as  an  American  citizen,  what  was  he  to 
do?  Murder  was  murder  the  world  over,  and  the  young 
widow  shamelessly  and  unrepentantly  admitted  four  assassi 
nations.  Russia,  in  his  opinion,  no  matter  what  discrimina 
tions  international  law  might  make  in  favor  of  political 
murders,  was  absolutely  right  in  indicting  this  beautiful 
young  creature.  Now,  if  she  had  killed  a  man  who  had 
betrayed  her,  she  would  have  elicited  his  complete  sym 
pathy,  and  he  would  have  felt  no  compunction  in  dragging 
in  the  United  States  in  the  hopes  of  saving  her.  But  what 
in  thunder  did  a  young  girl  reared  in  the  lap  of  refinement 
and  luxury  mean  by  going  and  killing  four  men  whom,  con 
fessedly,  she  had  never  clapped  eyes  on  before  she  expe 
dited  them  to  Kingdom  Come.  Russian  ways  were  not 
American  ways.  He  thanked  Heaven  for  it. 

Nevertheless  he  acquired  the  habit  of  insomnia.  The 
post  of  Consul  in  this  obscure  little  Russian  town  had  been 
procured  for  him  by  influential  friends  because  he  was  re 
cuperating  from  a  nervous  break-down  and  required  an  easy 
berth.  The  irony  of  that  did  not  tend  to  raise  his  spirits. 
Nevertheless,  he  had  all  but  nerved  himself  for  the  trip  to 
St.  Petersburg  when  the  unexpected  happened.  One  fine 
morning  Varvara  Alexandrovna  had  disappeared  from  her 
cell.  She  had  made  her  escape  through  the  filed  grating  of 
the  window.  Where  had  she  procured  the  file?  Neither 


PROLOGUE  25 

Frau  Ursula,  nor  the  German  Consul,  nor  the  American 
Consul  could  be  suspected.  The  Governor  of  the  prison  was 
furious,  and  the  trembling  jailer  suggested  that  the  tall, 
handsome,  dark  young  gentleman,  who  so  strikingly  re 
sembled  the  prisoner  and  who  had  been  admitted  on  an  es 
pecial  pass  of  the  Governor,  had  brought  it.  The  Governor 
roared  out  his  wrath.  He  had  given  no  especial  pass  to  any 
one,  least  of  all  to  Dmitri  Stepanovich  Vasalov,  whom  he 
easily  identified  from  the  jailer's  description. 

But  the  damage  was  done.  Plot  and  counterplot;  stroke 
and  counterstroke ;  forgery  and  counter- forgery.  That, 
Frau  Ursula  reflected,  was  typical  of  Russia.  She  derived  a 
curious  satisfaction  from  Madame  von  Estritz's  flight.  It 
seemed  to  invest  her  incipient  suspicion  that  the  Russian  wife 
of  the  man  whom  she  had  loved  did  not  really  love  her  own 
child  with  the  authority  of  chapter  and  verse.  Her  escape 
must  have  been  long  in  preparing.  If  she  had  really  loved 
little  Guido,  would  she  not,  knowing  of  the  project  to  rescue 
herself,  have  kept  him  by  her?  Instead  of  that,  she  had 
abandoned  the  child.  She  had  abandoned  the  child  to  give 
herself  anew  to  her  Cause !  An  infernal  cause,  Frau  Ursula 
reflected  since  its  primary  object  seemed  to  be  murder. 
All  her  pity  for  Madame  von  Estritz  was  wiped  away.  She 
could  not  pity  a  woman  whom  she  considered  destitute  of 
the  maternal  instinct.  The  letter  among  the  heliotrope- 
scented  handkerchiefs  to  the  contrary. 

Ursula  von  Wendt  left  Russia  within  the  hour.  She  de 
tested  Russia.  She  had  a  horrid  fear  that  in  some  way  these 
Russian  brutes  would  try  to  involve  her  in  the  case,  or 
would  rob  her  of  the  child.  Her  fears  were  groundless. 
She  reached  Berlin  in  safety  and  immediately  began  prepar 
ations  for  emigrating  to  the  United  States.  She  had  will 
ingly  acquiesced  in  Varvara  Alexandrovna's  request  that 
the  Synthetic  Babe  be  reared  on  neutral  soil.  She  had  ab 
sorbed  all  of  Madame  von  Estritz's  other  rules  and  regula 
tions  and  by-laws  for  the  upbringing  of  the  boy  without 
making  any  definite  promise.  She  wanted  to  digest  the  en 
tire  wild  project  involving  the  lad  before  committing  her 
self  to  it  definitely.  She  might  have  proved  recalcitrant 
about  emigration  if  she  had  not  for  a  long  time  prior  to  her 
expedition  into  Russia  coquetted  with  the  idea  of  translating 
herself  across  the  Atlantic. 


26  THE  HYPHEN 

Her  departure  was  delayed  by  the  ill  health  of  her  little 
ward.  The  cruel  blow  upon  his  spine,  which  he  had  re 
ceived  by  accident,  was  bearing  evil  fruit.  Throughout  sev 
eral  years  the  child  required  expert  medical  attention.  At 
the  end  of  two  years,  he  seemed  as  normal  as  any  other  child, 
and  splints  and  ointments  were  things  of  the  past.  They 
might  also  be  things  of  the  future,  the  specialist  who  had 
treated  the  child,  warned  her.  There  might  be  a  recurrence 
of  the  spinal  trouble  in  the  child's  seventh  or  eighth  year. 
Wholesome  food,  light,  fresh  air,  and  exercise  delicately 
graduated  and  juxtaposed  to  periods  of  rest,  were  the  only 
preventive  measures  within  reach. 

Ursula  von  Wendt,  remembered  her  promise  to  trans 
plant  the  frail  Synthetic  plant  to  impartial  America,  but  the 
idea  of  uprooting  herself,  which  had  fascinated  her  two 
years  earlier,  seemed  less  attractive  to  her  now.  She  ex 
perienced  gloomy  forebodings  and  a  strong  disinclination  to 
venture  upon  so  hazardous  an  undertaking.  She  had,  I  think, 
a  lurking  fear  that  Indians  still  prowled  about  the  streets  of 
American  cities  after  dark.  And  with  no  man  to  protect 
her  and  the  child ! 

While  she  was  in  the  throes  of  her  uncertainty,  a  young 
Berliner  of  her  own  age,  who  managed  a  small  Confections- 
laden  for  the  widow  of  his  former  employer,  drifted  more 
intimately  upon  the  scenes  of  her  life.  Young  Erich 
Hauser  was  distinctly  not  of  her  own  class.  The  son  of  a 
well-to-do  Metzgermeister,  he  had  received  an  education  far 
above  his  station.  His  intelligence  was  keen  and  did  not 
move  entirely  upon  a  material  plane,  and  it  irked  him  that  in 
spite  of  his  superior  mentality  and  excellent  education  he 
should  be  rigidly  barred  from  the  society  of  those  whom  he 
conceived  to  be  his  peers  but  who  regarded  him  as  an  in 
ferior. 

Frau  Ursula,  in  whom  the  caste  instinct  was  at  this  time 
very  strong,  tolerated  the  man's  society  only  because  of  his 
kindness  to  little  Guido.  When  he  asked  to  marry  her,  she 
took  no  pains  to  hide  her  amazement  at  his  audacity.  In 
stead  of  resenting  her  assumption  of  superiority,  he  per 
sisted  in  urging  his  suit.  He  was  a  Streber,  and  as  such 
could  not  allow  himself  to  be  side-tracked  by  rebuffs  or 
snubs.  A  Streber,  though  of  a  genus  similar  to  that  of 
climber,  presents  marked  peculiarities  of  his  own.  Erich 


PROLOGUE  27 

Hauser  had  an  excellent  substratum  of  laudable  qualities 
with  which  to  Tback  his  pretensions.  He  was  well-read,  a 
fluent  talker,  an  excellent  business  man.  And  he  was  abso 
lutely  honest.  Nor  was  his  good-nature,  displayed  in  amus 
ing  little  Guido,  wholly  an  assumed  virtue.  Some  calcula 
tion  there  may  have  been,  and  considerable  kindness  as  well. 

Frau  Ursula  was  too  deep  in  Hauser's  debt  for  the  semi- 
genuine,  semi-spurious  kindnesses  showered  upon  Guido  to 
turn  him  out  like  a  chimney-sweep,  as  she  would  have  liked 
to  do.  She  froze  hjm  and  he  declined  to  congeal.  She 
snubbed  him,  and  his  servility  became  intensified.  He  was  so 
very  meek  and  humble  and  deferential  that  she,  whose  tech 
nique  with  men — and  women  too — was  perfect,  was  unable 
to  disencumber  herself  of  him. 

It  so  happened  one  day  that  he  told  her  that  his  chief  am 
bition  was  to  emigrate  to  America.  To  that  end  he  was 
hoarding  his  savings.  One  trip  to  America  he  had  made  as 
a  lad,  and  he  had  received  an  overwhelming  impression  of 
general  prosperity  which  time  had  not  obliterated.  Given  a 
fair  start  in  his  line  of  business,  and  a  capable  man  might 
become  a  millionaire  in  ten  years'  time.  Might!  He  cor 
rected  himself.  "Was  bound  to"  was  what  he  had  meant  to 
say. 

Frau  Ursula  turned  over  carefully  in  her  mind  all  that 
Hauser  had  said  to  her.  She  surmised  that  he  had  spoken 
with  a  purpose.  She  saw  nothing  reprehensible  in  his  view 
of  America  as  a  country  inviting  exploitation,  since  she  her 
self,  whenever  her  thoughts  turned  America-wards,  was  ac 
tuated  solely  by  her  unfulfilled  promise  to  Guide's  mother 
and  by  a  desire  to  be  rid  forever  of  the  vexatious  memory 
of  the  high  estate  from  which  she  had  fallen  in  divorcing 
her  husband,  the  Rittergutsbesitzer  of  Mecklenburg- 
Schwerin. 

She  imagined  furthermore  that  Hauser  suspected  that  she 
had  considerable  money,  and  that  his  suit  was  inspired  not 
so  much  by  passion  as  by  mercenary  considerations.  In  as 
suming  this  she  was  wrong.  Even  a  Streber,  being  human, 
must  have  appetites  and  may  have  a  heart.  Hauser  was 
doubtless  attracted  by  Frau  Ursula's  higher  social  position 
and  independent  means,  but  he  was  at  the  same  time  very 
genuinely  in  love  with  her.  To  call  a  woman  of  Frau  Ur 
sula's  superior  caliber  wife,  to  possess  her,  to  have  her  bear  • 


28  THE  HYPHEN 

his  name,  was  the  apex  of  his  dreams,  the  topmost  pinnacle 
of  his  Strebertum  ambitions. 

After  mature  reflection,  Frau  Ursula,  observing  due  cau 
tion,  gradually  removed  the  bristles  and  thorns  from  her 
manner  toward  Hauser.  He  renewed  his  offer  of  marriage 
as  she  had  known  he  would  do,  and  this  gave  her  the  desired 
opening. 

"Herr  Hauser,"  she  said,  "I  have  a  long  and  strange  story 
to  tell  you.  It  is  possible  that  we  may  arrive  at  a  compro 
mise." 

She  told  him  the  story  of  her  rescue  of  Guido  from  the 
Russian  prison,  of  his  mother's  subsequent  escape,  of  the 
money  waiting  for  the  child  in  New  York,  of  the  large  in 
come  derived  from  that  money  of  which  she  had  the  use, 
and  of  the  gift  made  her  outright  by  Guido's  mother.  She 
did  not  tell  him  just  how  large  little  Guide's  fortune  was, 
nor  that  she  had  loved  Guide's  father,  deeming  that  this 
concerned  no  one  but  herself.  She  concluded  by  offering 
him  the  use  of  the  fifty  thousand  dollars  which  Madame  von 
Estritz  had  given  her,  for  an  indefinite  period,  without  in 
terest,  if  in  return  he  would  be  willing  to  enter  into  a  purely 
nominal  marriage  with  her.  All  this  was  said  by  her  on 
the  supposition  that  he  did  not  love  her. 

Hauser  listened  attentively  to  her  story,  noting  the  hiatus 
existing  between  her  rescue  of  the  child  and  an  adequate 
motive.  His  face  was  a  blank,  as  he  said,  very  blandly : 

"I  confess  I  do  not  entirely  comprehend  why  you  should 
offer  me  the  sum  of  fifty  thousand  dollars  for  an  indefinite 
period — I  may  lose  it,  you  know — in  return  for  my  name, 
when,  as  you  say,  you  do  not  love  me." 

"I  offer  it  because  I  know  that  you  require  money  to  carry 
out  your  plans.  I,  on  the  other  hand,  need  an  honest  man's 
protection.  You  speak  English,  you've  been  in  America  be 
fore,  you  are  a  capable  business  man.  You  have  all  qualifi 
cations  for  emigration  which  I  lack." 

"In  other  words,  you  desire  a  dependable  courier  whom 
you  can  lose  only  through  death?"  he  inquired,  ironically. 
He  had  the  trick  of  sarcasm.  He  had  purposively  cultivated 
it.  He  thought  it  gave  him  an  aristocratic  air. 

"Delicacy  forbade  my  couching  the  necessity  I  am  under 
in  terms  so  crude,"  responded  the  lady,  with  some  spirit. 
"If  you  desire  your  freedom,  after  a  reasonable  time,  as 


PROLOGUE  29 

soon  as  I  have  found  my  bearings,  you  will  not  find  me  op 
posed  to  a  divorce." 

"Are  you  sure  that  you  do  not  mean  that  you  will  desire 
your  f reedoom  after  a  'reasonable  time  ?'  " 

"I  am  not  given  to  equivocation,"  said  Frau  Ursula 
coldly.  "I  mean  what  I  say.  Also,  you  have  expressed 
yourself  loosely.  As  I  have  no  intention  of  resigning  my 
freedom,  there  can  be  no  talk  of  regaining  it." 

"Marriage  is  a  tie,"  said  Hauser,  tranquilly. 

"Not  in  our  case,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  determinedly.  "I 
am  afraid  I  have  not  made  myself  entirely  clear.  I  do  not 
love  you — and  there  must  be  no  expectations  on  your  part 
of  a  husband's  privileges.  Our  marriage  is  to  be  purely  a 
marriage  of  convenience,  a  nominal  marriage,  as  I  have  said 
before." 

"I  understand  that  perfectly,"  said  Hauser,  with  utmost 
humility.  Had  Frau  Ursula  noted  the  sardonic  smile  that 
lurked  in  the  averted  eyes,  she  might  have  thought  the 
Streber  a  creature  meaner,  and  yet  less  mean  and  far,  far 
more  formidable  than  she  had  conceived  him  to  be. 

"And  this  boy  of  yours — who  is  not  yours — how  strange 
that  you  should  feel  such  a  self-sacrificing  love  for  him !" 

"Love  is  a  luxury,  we  may  dispose  of  it  as  we  see  fit," 
said  Frau  Ursula  with  a  harshness  meant  to  convey  that  she 
would  not  allow  one  jot  or  tittle  of  that  delectable  sweet 
meat  to  be  diverted  to  Hauser. 

The  Streber  smiled.  He  was  not  much  of  a  psychologist, 
but  he  thought  he  was.  Psychology  is  a  dangerous  avoca 
tion  for  any  but  experts, — as  we  shall  see  later. 

He  said: 

"Exactly."  And  bowed  acquiescence  in  her  dictum  as 
gallantly  as  if  his  father  had  been  a  courtier  instead  of  a 
sausage  butcher.  "Would  I  be  presuming  if  I  asked  some 
further  details  of  this  strange  pact  of  which  Guido  is  the 
subject?  You  have  glanced  at  it " 

"I  am  afraid  I  cannot  tell  you  more  about  it  just  now," 
she  said.  "I  have  not  yet  definitely  made  up  my  mind 
whether  I  am  going  to  carry  out  all  the  wishes  of  his  par 
ents.  I  have  made  no  promise  excepting  the  one — that  he 
shall  be  reared  in  America." 

The  Streber  shrugged  his  shoulders.    He  was  not  in  the 


30  THE  HYPHEN 

least  hurt  at  being  thus  unceremoniously  thrust  beyond  the 
outskirts  of  her  confidence. 

Frau  Ursula  despised  him  anew  for  his  calm  acceptance 
of  the  snub  which  she  had  just  visited  upon  him.  She  was 
a  good  woman,  but  narrow  and  not  over-clever.  Had  she 
been  as  clever  as  she  was  good,  her  cleverness  might  have 
acted  as  a  brake  for  the  universal  condemnation  in  which 
she  drenched  the  Streber.  She  would  then  have  known  that 
often  we  deem  ourselves  loyal  to  those  whom  we  love  when 
in  truth  we  are  merely  unkind  to  those  whom  we  dislike. 

"I  think,"  said  Hauser,  "we  might  as  well  clinch  matters. 
I  am  perfectly  willing  to  accept  the  post  as  your  courier." 

A  strange  bargain  strangely  consummated.  Frau  Ursula 
had  twice  in  the  past  acted  upon  her  own  initiative — once 
when  she  had  left  the  Rittergutsbesitser,  and  in  traveling 
alone  into  Russia.  Both  times  she  had  acted  under  the  pro 
pulsion  of  a  tremendous  impetus.  She  had  no  such  impetus 
to  take  her  to  America,  and  as  a  result  she  committed  the 
crowning  folly  of  her  life. 

They  were  married  a  fortnight  later.  Hauser  promised 
to  maintain  absolute  silence  regarding  the  boy's  nativity. 
No  one,  not  the  child  himself,  was  to  suspect  that  Guido 
Hauser  was  not  Guido  Hauser. 

Within  three  days  of  her  marriage  Frau  Ursula  dis 
covered  the  egregiousness  of  her  venture.  Hauser  had  no 
intention  of  embracing  the  role  of  nominal  husband  as 
signed  to  him. 

He  came  briskly  into  the  room  one  evening,  and  quickly 
bending  over,  kissed  her. 

She  drew  away,  frowning,  throwing  him  the  same  sort  of 
look  which  had  so  often  cowed  him  before. 

He  seated  himself  at  her  side: 

"My  dear  Ursula,"  he  said,  "you  are  too  sensible  a 
woman  to  believe  that  any  man  is  going  to  be  kept  at  arm's 
length  by  his  wife." 

Frau  Ursula  opened  her  aristocratic  eyes  wide  in  aston 
ishment.  She  did  not  entirely  recognize  in  the  man  at  her 
side  who  showed  such  suave  masterfulness  and  thorough 
bred  urbanity  the  despised  Streber,  the  creature  of  an  in 
ferior  social  class,  the  upper  servant  who,  for  reasons  of  her 
own,  was  for  a  while  to  masquerade  as  her  husband,  being 
well  paid  for  the  honor.  The  profound  contempt  which  she 


PROLOGUE  31 

had  entertained  for  him  was  somewhat  shaken.  Something 
distantly  akin  to  respect  crept  into  her  heart  for  his  son  of 
the  people  who  could  muster  so  grand  and  so  bland  a 
manner. 

"I  love  you,  Ursula,"  he  said,  speaking  with  a  certain 
noble  simplicity.  A  bounder  he  might  be  when  in  the  grasp 
of  ambition  and  greed,  but  he  was  anything  but  a  bounder  at 
this  moment,  as  Frau  Ursula  grudgingly  admitted  to  her 
self. 

"I  love  you,  Ursula,"  he  repeated,  "and  I  want  you  to 
understand  that  I  did  not  make  this  bargain  with  you  be 
cause  of  the  money.  I  am  glad  to  have  the  loan  of  it — I 
will  return  you  double  the  sum  before  ten  years  have  gone 
by.  But  I  would  not  have  married  you  for  the  money  if  I 
had  not  loved  you.  I  intend  to  win  you.  It  may  take  a  long 
time,  but  I  am  going  to  win  out." 

The  calm  assurance  with  which  he  spoke,  the  unabashed 
passion  with  which  he  looked  at  her,  caused  her  heart  to 
stand  still  with  a  choking  sense  of  impotence  and  dismay. 
For  a  minute  she  was  too  angry  to  speak.  Then  she  said : 

"You  will  never  win  me.  If  we  are  to  remain  friends  you 
will  not  attempt  to  make  love  to  me." 

"I  am  not  aware  that  we  have  ever  been  friends,"  said 
the  Streber  as  coolly  and  superciliously  as  she  herself  might 
have  done.  Frau  Ursula  quailed.  She  had  a  blinding  in 
sight  into  this  man's  possibilities  and  realized  that  she  had 
laughably  underestimated  him.  She  was  furious  with  him 
for  having  hoodwinked  her,  furious  with  herself  for  having 
been  so  simple. 

However  bitterly  she  regretted  having  made  the  bargain, 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  through  with  it.  They 
sailed  for  New  York  in  April,  1898.  The  steamer  was 
crowded,  and  it  was  difficult  to  obtain  berths  in  separate 
cabins.  Frau  Ursula  anticipated  a  stormy  scene  with  her 
husband  in  this  matter  of  separate  cabins,  but  he  acquiesced 
in  her  suggestion  with  protest.  He  had,  she  perceived,  some 
delicacy.  But  delicacy  and  tact,  although  twin  virtues,  are 
not  identical  any  more  than  human  twins  are  identical.  On 
board  the  steamer,  when  strangers  were  present,  and  she 
dared  not  protest,  he  insisted  on  patting  her  hand,  or  touch 
ing  her  cheek,  or  brushing  imaginary  wisps  of  hair  from  her 
brow.  Bred  as  she  was,  intimate  gestures  of  this  sort  in  the 


32  THE  HYPHEN 

full  glare  of  publicity  would  have  been  insufferable  though 
coming  from  the  man  she  loved.  Coming  from  Hauser, 
whom  she  no  longer  regarded  as  a  mere  Strebcr,  they  were 
odious  indeed.  When  alone  with  him  she  attempted  to  re 
monstrate  with  him  against  these  familiarities  on  the 
ground  of  breeding.  He  thought  her  plea  a  subterfuge. 
Had  he  believed  in  the  sincerity  of  her  objections,  with  his 
keen  zest  for  social  values,  he  would  have  desisted.  As  it 
was,  he  continued  these  blatant  means  of  asserting  his 
dominion  over  her  person.  Then,  too,  in  his  preoccupation 
with  his  wife,  he  was  indifferent  to  the  point  of  rudeness  to 
the  claims  of  other  women.  To  be  discourteous  to  his 
wife's  sex  was  his  notion  of  showing  his  love  for  her. 

She  magnified  his  every  offense  a  thousandfold.  The  en 
forced  proximity  on  board  the  vessel  made  him  seem  a  hun 
dred  times  more  odious  than  he  really  was.  He  had  his 
good  points,  she  could  not  deny  it.  He  was  kindness  itself  to 
her  and  to  little  Guido.  And  he  was  kindness  itself  to  the 
wife  of  an  emigrant  who  fell  ill  during  the  voyage.  He  sent 
her  fruit  and  delicacies  from  the  first  cabin  table,  and  when 
she  died,  he  took  up  a  collection  among  the  passengers  for 
the  benefit  of  the  widower,  who  seemed  a  helpless  sort  of 
a  creature  to  undertake  the  rearing  of  six  small  children  sin 
gle-handedly. 

Undoubtedly,  he  had  his  good  points.  There  were  mo 
ments  when  she  wished  he  had  not  a  single  one.  He  got  on 
famously  with  men,  and  she  could  see  also  that  in  spite  of 
his  wanton  lack  of  courtesy  toward  women  they  liked  him 
and  respected  him.  This  amazed  Frau  Ursula,  until  one 
day  one  of  the  women  passengers  told  her  that  everybody 
liked  Hauser  so  much  because  one  could  see  how  utterly  de 
voted  he  was  to  his  wife  and  boy. 

Frau  Ursula  winced.  The  fellow-voyager's  words  con 
tained  a  shadowy  insinuation  that  Hauser's  wife  did  not  en 
tirely  appreciate  Hauser  and  Hauser's  love.  As  a  result, 
Frau  Ursula's  dislike  for  her  husband  waxed  and  throve. 
But  there  had  been  injected  into  that  dislike  the  germ  of 
respect.  His  manners  might  be  offensive,  even  boorish,  but 
she  knew  that  deep  down  in  this  man's  nature  was  imbedded 
a  kernel  of  goodness  and  substantial  worth  which,  hence 
forth,  she  would  never  be  able  entirely  to  ignore. 

His  worst  offense,  of  course,  was  that  he  was  not  Guido 


PROLOGUE  33 

von  Estritz.  There  was  something  of  idolatry  in  the  love 
she  had  given  the  man  who  did  not  even  suspect  that  she 
cared  for  him.  The  chastest  imagination  has  its  hours  of 
blackguardly  license;  the  cleanest  heart  owns  a  corner  re 
quiring  chlorides  and  white-wash.  Frau  Ursula  was  as 
good  and  as  pure-minded  a  woman  as  could  be  found  the 
world  over.  But  she  was  not  an  angel.  And  she  had  been 
married  before — married  in  fact  as  well  as  in  word — to  a 
man  whom  she  did  not  love.  By  the  agony  of  a  loveless 
marriage  she  was  able  to  measure  the  joyous  intoxication  of 
wedlock  based  on  love. 

She  had  loved  von  Estritz  passionately  and  with  a  full- 
blooded  love.  She  had  not  seen  him  in  death.  A  curious 
fatuity  of  the  mind  decrees  that  him  whom  the  eyes  have 
not  seen  as  lifeless  clay  the  heart  continues  to  sense  as  a 
living,  breathing  soul.  Thus  she  continued  to  picture  Guido 
von  Estritz.  She  could  not  conceive  that  that  ardent,  en 
thusiastic  brain  had  been  snuffed  out,  she  could  not  think 
of  him  as  having  passed  on  to  the  ultimate  bourne.  His 
child,  by  a  miracle,  had  been  tossed  into  her  life.  His  wife 
had  been  eliminated  from  the  scene,  and  the  questions, 
"Whither?  Whence?  Where?"  as  touching  her  person  could 
be  answered  with  no  more  certainty  than  if  she  had  been  a 
departed  soul. 

Frau  Ursula  was  not  a  woman  in  whom  the  maternal  in 
stinct  takes  the  trivial  form  of  mere  sensuous  joy  in  the 
pink  and  white  loveliness  of  the  little  human  toys.  She  saw 
in  every  child  a  human  personality  in  the  bud.  This  particu 
lar  child  must  be  her  lost  Guide's  personality  in  counterfeit 
presentment;  for  in  spite  of  the  utter  dissimilarity  in  the 
appearance  of  father  and  son,  she  could  not  repress  the 
conviction  that  this  tiny  creature  was  instinct  with  his 
father's  spirit.  When  she  remembered  the  Synthesis  which 
the  child  was  supposed  to  represent  and  to  achieve,  she  be 
came  disdainful.  She  did  not  allow  poor  Varvara  Alexan- 
drovna  a  part  in  her  own  child.  Had  the  Russian  woman 
not  abandoned  her  babe?  Frau  Ursula  spent  hours  at  the 
child's  bed,  hoping  to  surprise  in  the  little  creature  some  re 
semblance,  some  trick  of  expression,  some  gesture  that 
might  recall  his  father.  She  never  thought  of  little  Guido 
as  the  child  of  Varvara  Alexandrovna  and  of  von  Estritz. 
It  was  von  Estritz's  child — and  hers.  She  was  its  spiritual 


34  THE  HYPHEN 

mother.  In  time  she  came  to  look  upon  herself  as  von  Es- 
tritz's  widow — or  as  his  wife,  since  she  did  not  distinctly 
visualize  his  death. 

Such  being  her  frame  of  mind,  the  wooing  of  herself  by 
any  other  man  was  an  impertinence  and  an  immorality. 
Yet  it  was  to  this — impertinence  and  immorality — that  she 
had  condemned  herself.  After  one  or  two  impassioned  ap 
peals  on  Hauser's  part,  she  began  dimly  to  realize  that  years 
might — and  would — elapse  before  her  rejections  would 
wear  down  his  persistence.  She  set  her  teeth  and  smiled 
grimly.  What,  after  all,  did  it  matter?  Love  sometimes 
changes  good  women  into  the  incarnation  of  selfishness. 
Hauser's  happiness  did  not  enter  into  the  equation  in  the 
least  in  Frau  Ursula's  summation  of  facts.  He  had  been  a 
necessary  factor  in  her  translation  from  the  Old  World  to 
the  New.  And  she  had  won  Estritz's  child.  That  was  the 
great  pivotal  fact  of  her  life.  She  was  the  guiding  star, 
the  providence,  the  father,  the  mother,  the  guardian  angel 
and  earthly  guardian,  the  what  not  else  of  von  Estritz's  boy. 


Part  I 
CHILDHOOD 


CHAPTER  I 

years  have  elapsed  since  Frau  Ursula's  dual  trans- 
lation  from  Frau  Ursula  von  Wendt  and  the  Father 
land  to  Mrs.  Erich  Hauser  and  the  Land  of  Illimitable 
Possibilities,  which  was  the  semi-ironic,  semi-sincere  cog 
nomen  bestowed  upon  the  United  States  by  the  Germans 
of  Frau  Ursula's  day.  Almost  half  that  time  little  Guido 
Hauser  had  spent  in  bed,  and  yet  he  was  not  unhappy. 
For  to  console  and  solace  him  he  had  a  well-oiled  imagina 
tion  that  worked  overtime  without  urging,  which  is  some 
thing  to  be  valued  more  highly  than  the  treasure  of  Captain 
Kidd  by  a  little  boy  condemned  periodically  to  a  two  or 
three  years'  cruise  in  bed. 

One  morning  in  February,  Guido  sat  propped  up  in  bed, 
watching  the  heavy,  dropsical-looking  snow  descend  in  a 
slowly-moving,  thick  curtain.  It  was  not  yet  eight  o'clock, 
and  the  -snow  shut  out  the  light.  The  child,  since  it  was 
too  dark  to  read,  contented  himself  with  watching  the  un 
rolling  white  drapery  with  a  rapt,  intent  expression.  His 
white  little  face  was  so  wasted  that  it  looked  haggard  and 
old.  It  was  completely  submerged  by  the  brilliantly  black 
eyes  which  stood  out  from  the  pale  face  with  the  sparkling 
vividness  with  which  an  illumined  letter  lifts  itself  from 
a  vellum  page. 

Suddenly  the  moving  curtain  of  snow  slackened  its  speed. 
It  became  thinner  in  texture,  less  voluminous,  almost 
diaphanous.  Rays  of  pale  light  stabbed  through  the  white 
sheen,  crowded  it  aside,  elided  it  entirely,  revealing  a 
landscape  piled  high  with  ermine  and  diamonds. 

"Mutterchen,"  Guido  cried,  or  rather  bellowed  with  a 
vigor  which  showed  that  his  lungs  were  quite  undebilitated. 
"Mutterchen,  come  here,  quick !"  Nothing  but  German  was 
spoken  in  the  Hauser  household.  Frau  Ursula  came  run 
ning  into  the  room,  napkin  in  hand. 

"Mein  lieber  Junge!    What's  the  matter,  dear?" 

37 


38  THE  HYPHEN 

"You've  promised  me  a  sleigh-ride  the  first  fine  day. 
We've  waited  all  winter.  And  now  it's  stopped  snowing!" 

"Why,  so  it  has !"  said  Frau  Ursula,  in  feigned  surprise. 

"Mother,  can  we  go  sleighing  to-day?" 

"And  do  you  really  care  for  a  sleigh-ride?"  From  her 
tone  one  would  have  judged  that  a  liking  for  sleigh-riding 
was  an  abnormal  taste. 

"Mother !      You  are  teasing  me.    We  are  going." 

"I've  not  said  so." 

"No — but  we're  going!  I  can  tell.  By  your  eyes. 
You're  a  shocking  tease,  Mother.  I'm  so  happy." 

He  threw  himself  into  her  arms,  snuggling  his  face  into 
her  shoulder  like  a  kitten.  The  weight  of  his  frail  little 
body  was  as  nought.  Unlike  a  healthy  child,  which,  when 
clasped  in  one's  arm,  becomes  a  weight  of  lead  after  a 
while,  the  slight  pressure  which  Guide  exerted  seemed  to 
dissipate  itself  after  a  few  moments.  Her  supreme  love 
for  the  child  persuaded  her  into  the  grotesque  belief  that 
his  flesh  was  resolved  into  her  own  at  such  moments — that 
she  thus  achieved  the  mystical  unity  which  exists  between 
mother  and  child  before  birth. 

She  had  cast  off  her  spiritual  weeds  at  last  Like  many 
an  actual  widow,  she  lived  in  the  child — his  child.  She 
had  completely  ceased  to  think  of  the  boy  as  not  belonging 
to  her.  His  father  was  dead.  His  mother  had  undoubt 
edly  been  recaptured,  and  had  probably  been  sent  to  Siberia 
again.  To  all  practical  intents  she,  too,  was  dead.  These 
things  were  things  of  the  past,  and  she  no  longer  harked 
back  to  them.  She  no  longer  repined  and  regretted  that 
Guido  did  not  resemble  his  father.  The  child's  own  per 
sonality  had  conquered  her.  She  loved  him  now  for  his 
own  sake,  not  because  he  was  von  Estritz's  child.  Some 
times,  under  all  his  gentleness  and  meekness  there  showed 
a  wild  fieriness,  a  flaming  enthusiasm  which  lent  itself  to 
quick  transitions  and  fine  gradations  and  which  she  was 
at  a  loss  to  explain.  He  had  not  derived  the  trait  from 
his  lymphatic  father  nor,  she  thought,  from  his  fanatical 
mother.  At  such  times  a  great  fear  would  descend  upon 
Frau  Ursula.  For  might  it  not  be  the  Synthesis  germi 
nating?  Strange  to  say,  as  her  spiritual  widowhood  re 
ceded  into  the  background  of  her  thoughts,  the  Synthesis 
came  to  the  fore.  She  regretted  that  she  had  not  a  more 


CHILDHOOD  39 

sharply  limned  recollection  of  all  von  Estritz  had  told  her 
about  his  plan,  and  about  all  Varvara  Alexandrovna  had 
told  her  of  the  child's  destiny.  In  vague  outline  she  knew 
perfectly  what  the  project  had  been  and  understood  along 
which  lines  the  von  Estritzes  would  have  educated  the  boy. 
She  had  decided,  generously,  to  carry  out  the  wishes  in 
dicated  by  Varvara  Alexandrovna,  although  she  had  made 
no  definite  promise.  Nor  was  she  prompted  solely  by 
generosity  in  this  decision.  She  entertained  a  sort  of 
superstitious  fear  of  the  Synthesis,  as  if  it  were  a  new 
species  of  ancestral  curse.  This  held  her  to  a  minute  ob 
servance  of  all  that  Varvara  Alexandrovna  had  prescribed. 

"Guido,  mein  Liebling,"  she  said,  "unclasp  me.  If  we  are 
to  go  I  must  hurry  and  make  my  arrangements  for  the 
day." 

"Then  we  are  going!    Oh,  Mother." 

"Yes,  my  pet,  we  are  going.  But  you  must  be  a  good 
boy.  I  do  not  want  a  temperature  to-morrow  as  a  result 
of  to-day's  outing." 

"I'll  be  as  good  as  gold.     Oh,  Mother — I  love  you  so!" 

"Schmeichelkaetschen!  You  must  surely  have  kissed  the 
Blarney  Stone."  But  she  came  back  to  the  child's  bedside 
and  kissed  him  once  more.  "I  want  you  to  rest  quietly 
on  your  back  until  I  come  to  dress  you,"  she  called  back 
over  her  shoulder. 

"Well,"  said  her  husband,  as  she  came  back  into  the 
dining-room,  "what  was  the  matter  with  him  now?" 

That  "now"  was  Shakespearian  in  its  compression  of 
thunderous  disapproval. 

"We  are  going  for  a  sleigh-ride,"  she  .replied,  shortly. 

"Ah,  indeed!  The  heir-apparent  desires  to  go  sleigh- 
riding.  Ordinary  mortals  therefore  must  do  without  their 
second  cup  of  coffee." 

Frau  Ursula  colored,  angrily. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said.    "May  I  help  you  now?" 

"Thanks,  no,  I  don't  care  for  cold  coffee.  Or — yes,  I'll 
have  it.  Cold  coffee — you  know  the  saying — improves  one's 
looks.  Perhaps  if  I  become  better-looking,  you'll  have  eyes 
for  me  as  well  as  for  our  young  lord." 

Frau  Ursula  did  not  reply  to  this  tirade,  but  her  hand 
trembled  as  she  handed  her  husband  the  filled  cup.  Having 
failed  in  his  effort  to  win  her,  he  had  adopted  this  offensive 


40  THE  HYPHEN 

manner  of  punishing  her.  His  manner  now  fluctuated  con 
tinually  between  downright  brutality  and  a  sarcasm  no  less 
cruel.  What  might  have  passed  as  a  good-natured  banter 
with  a  man  of  gentler  breeding,  became  a  deadly  gibe  on 
his  lips.  Frau  Ursula  had  long  since  realized  that  she 
must  not  waste  the  vitality  required  by  her  service  for 
Guido  in  futile  hatred  of  the  man  whose  name  she  bore. 
Perhaps,  subconsciously,  her  conscience  pricked  her.  She 
realized  in  a  dim  way  that  the  bargain  between  them  was 
not  a  fair  one.  Had  her  notion  of  personal  purity  been 
less  exalted,  she  might  have  yielded  herself  to  him  and 
raised  him  to  her  own  level.  Indeed,  she  sometimes 
thought  that  he  had  reached  that  level  without  her  help. 
He  was  well  liked  everywhere,  and  was  considered  one  of 
the  leading  citizens  of  the  little  town  of  Anasquoit,  in 
which  they  had  settled. 

Hauser  had  been  very  successful.  He  had  made  a  great 
success  of  the  first  department  store  of  which  Anasquoit 
boasted,  although  everybody  had  predicted  that  no  depart 
ment  store  could  exist  in  Anasquoit.  The  reason  for  this 
dismal  forecast  which,  luckily  .for  Hauser,  had  not  been 
realized,  was  the  proximity  of  Anasquoit  to  New  York. 
Flung  along  the  Jersey  shore  of  the  Hudson,  like  a  broad 
band  of  ribbon,  almost  directly  opposite  to  the  metropolis, 
Anasquoit,  with  all  the  pretensions  of  a  city,  was  in  reality 
little  more  than  a  suburb.  It  was  this  proximity  to  the 
largest  city  of  the  world  that  for  years  had  crippled  its 
industrial  and  financial  growth  quite  as  effectually  as  the 
River  which  formed  Anasquoit's  eastern  border,  and  the 
Palisades,  which  rose  frowning  like  turreted  battlements 
along  its  western  fringe,  had  restricted  its  physical  growth 
and  compressed  it  into  its  ribbon  form. 

New  York  was  so  close  at  hand  that  to  ferry  across  the 
River  was  barely  more  trouble  than  to  step  across  the 
street.  The  cars  that  ran  from  the  ferry  to  all  the  large 
stores  were  convenient  and  speedy,  and,  when  the  last  was 
said,  the  New  York  shops  outdistanced  the  finest  variety 
that  the  most  enterprising  Anasquoitan  store-keeper  could 
possibly  afford  to  offer  his  clientage.  Department  stores 
came  in  Anasquoit  and  lived  their  little  day  and  were  con 
signed  to  the  limbo  of  financial  failures  in  the  anti- 
Hauserian  days.  Therefore  the  pessimists  of  the  town 


CHILDHOOD  41 

sought  to  dissuade  Hauser  from  his  mad  enterprise.  He 
embarked  upon  it  nevertheless,  and  made  his  venture  pay, 
and  enlarged  his  store  every  few  years.  'It  was,  of  course, 
not  an  Altman's,  or  a  McCreery's,  but  it  was  an  excellent 
shop  for  medium-priced  goods,  and  it  was  the  pride  of 
Mauser's  heart.  The  Streber's  business  ambitions  had 
climbed  the  first  rung  of  the  ladder  which  led  to  the  goal 
which  he  had  set  himself.  But  his  personal  aspirations 
were  precisely  where  they  had  been  nine  years  earlier,  and 
this  was  wormwood  both  to  his  pride  and  to  his  love. 

Having  handed  her  husband  his  second  cup  of  coffee, 
Frau  Ursula  rose  precipitately. 

"Please  sit  down  and  finish  your  own  breakfast,  will 
you !"  Hauser  said  petulantly. 

Frau  Ursula  had  learned  not  to  cross  her  husband's 
wishes  unnecessarily.  She  sat  down  again,  obediently. 

After  a  moment  she  said,  meekly : 

"If  you  do  not  mind  very  much,  I  should  like  to  do  my 
telephoning  now." 

"Mind?  Why  should  I  mind."  The  insolence  of  his 
sarcasm  was  superb.  "Am  I  not  accustomed  to  be  thrust 
aside  at  all  times  for  the  convenience  of  your  young  prince? 
He  might  be  the  heir-apparent  to  the  Romanovs,  for  all  the 
fuss  you  make  over  him,  instead  of  heir-apparent  to  the 
Fool  Idea  of  a  couple  of  Infatuated  Lunatics !" 

Frau  Ursula,  owing  to  certain  singularities  in  the  boy's 
education,  had  been  forced  to  take  Hauser  into  the  secret 
of  the  Synthesis.  She  shrank  into  herself  at  his  words. 

"Erich!"  she  exclaimed,  resentfully,  "you  promised  me 
never  to  speak  of  this !" 

"Not  to  the  boy — not  to  any  stranger.  Did  that  include 
you?"  He  laughed,  harshly,  bitterly.  "Of  course,  we  are 
strangers.  Still!  Well,  it  seems  I  must  ask  permission  to 
speak  in  my  own  house.  I  dare  say  I  shall  accustom  myself 
to  that,  too." 

This  "too,"  like  the  "now"  which  he  had  flung  at  her 
earlier  in  their  interview,  was  a  condensation  of  the  re 
pressed  disappointment  and  mortification  of  years. 

Frau  Ursula  bit  her  lips.     After  a  moment  she  said: 

"Erich,  I  thought  we  had  agreed  to  be  civil  to  each 
other." 


42  THE  HYPHEN 

"Oh,  I  try  to  be  civil.  But  the  fuss  you  make  about 
that  brat  gets  on  my  nerves." 

The  contumelious  word  stung  Frau  Ursula  into  retorting : 

"You  owe  your  business  prosperity  to  the  'brat's' 
money !" 

"And  I'm  paying  him  seven  per  cent,  more  than  the  legal 
rate,"  her  husband  snarled.  "Oh,  well,  continue  to  make 
a  fool  of  yourself  over  this  young  political  Messiah !" 

He  dashed  down  his  cup  so  violently  that  the  saucer 
cracked.  Then,  rising  abruptly,  he  walked  rapidly  toward 
Guido's  door. 

The  apartment  occupied  by  the  Hausers  was  an  ex 
pensive  one  and  boasted  of  a  private  hall,  but  instead  of 
taking  the  circuitious  route  to  his  own  room,  Hauser  usually 
walked  through  the  rooms  occupied  by  his  wife  and  Guido. 
Frau  Ursula  could  not  tell,  therefore,  whether  he  was 
going  to  his  own  room  or  to  the  boy's.  She  exclaimed, 
impetuously : 

"Erich!" 

"Well?" 

"Erich,  don't  say  anything  unkind  to  the  boy  to-day. 
The  last  time  he  was  out  of  the  house  was  in  December. 
It  is  February  now.  All  winter  he  waited  patiently  for  a 
sleigh-ride.  Don't  spoil  it  for  him." 

Hauser  laughed  mockingly,  tauntingly.  He  made  her  a 
low  bow. 

"I  shall  endeavor  not  to  annoy  his  Highness,"  he  said, 
and  stepped  across  the  threshold  of  the  boy's  room. 

"Fool,  fool  that  I  was!"  muttered  Frau  Ursula,  and 
braced  herself  to  endure  new  torture. 

But,  long  as  she  knew  Hauser,  she  had  not  yet  learned  to 
fathom  his  moods.  He  was  this  morning  in  not  nearly 
as  bad  a  humor  as  she  believed,  but  sarcasm  had  become 
an  ingrained  habit.  Perhaps  it  was  a  mask,  as  well.  There 
was,  it  must  always  be  remembered,  his  side  of  the  case 
as  well  as  hers.  And  if  he  made  her  miserable  at  times 
it  is  only  fair  to  remember  that  she  made  him  unhappy 
always. 

"Your  mother  tells  me,"  Hauser  was  saying  to  Guido, 
"that  I  must  not  tease  you  to-day,  because  you  are  to  have 
a  merry  day.  When  you  are  indisposed  I  am  not  permitted 


CHILDHOOD  43 

to  aggravate  you,  either.  Your  Highness  perceives  the 
advantage  accruing  to  birth." 

The  blood  mounted  to  Frau  Ursula's  cheek  dully,  heavily, 
thickly.  To  bait  the  child  like  that !  Sarcasm  is  always 
a  cruel  weapon,  an  unfair  one  when  used  against  an  op 
ponent  too  young  or  too  poorly  dowered  by  nature  to  re 
taliate.  Guido,  to  whom  Hauser's  allusions  were  of  course 
entirely  unintelligible,  had  the  sensation  of  being  lashed  to 
right  and  to  left  by  a  scourge  that  was  invisible  but  which 
blistered  and  ripped  open  every  spot  upon  which 
it  descended.  Usually  he  writhed  cruelly  under  his 
father's  ridicule — for  as  such  he  construed  the  irony  which 
he  did  not  comprehend — remembered  it,  pored  over  it, 
could  make  nothing  of  it  and  ended  by  wondering  why 
his  father  hated  him  so  much.  There  were  times  when 
he  hated  his  father  so  viciously  that  all  currents  of  heart 
and  mind  seemed  to  merge  themselves  into  a  stream  feed 
ing  that  hatred.  Other  times  there  were  when  he  enter 
tained  something  like  indulgent  pity  for  his  father,  ap 
prehending  blindly  that  only  a  canker-eaten  heart  can  pro 
duce  fruit  so  bitter. 

To-day  he  pitied  him,  a  little  contemptuously.  Antici 
patory  joy  had  forged  a  sort  of  spiritual  armor  for  him 
which  was  dented  but  not  broken  by  the  shafts  which  his 
father  hurled  at  him. 

"We  are  going  for  a  sleigh-ride,  father,"  the  child  ex 
claimed.  "Can't  you  come,  too?" 

"No,  my  son."  Hauser's  "my  son"  was  always  obscurely 
wicked,  pregnant  with  reproach  and  with  insolence. 
"Sleigh-rides  are  for  the  elect  of  the  earth — for  lady-like 
little  boys  and  their  sweet  mammas.  Base  wretches  like 
myself  must  labor  in  the  sweat  of  their  brow." 

Frau  Ursula,  listening  intently,  perceived  that  Hauser's 
voice  had  changed  subtly.  The  note  of  cruelty  had  almost 
died  away.  Almost,  almost,  his  words  might  have  been 
set  down  as  the  pleasantry  of  a  vulgarian. 

"I'm  sorry  you  cannot  come,"  the  child  replied,  quietly. 
Never  had  the  sweet,  boyish  treble  seemed  so  pristine  and 
so  pure.  The  tears  sprang  to  Frau  Ursula's  eyes. 

Her  husband  had  re-entered  the  dining-room.  He  was 
now  equipped  for  the  street  in  overcoat  and  rubbers.  His 
hat  was  in  his  hand.  In  speaking  to  her  he  never  failed 


44  THE  HYPHEN 

to  assume  a  deferential  attitude,  even  when  his  tongue 
made  cruel  havoc  of  her  feelings.  And  upon  his  lips  there 
was  always  a  mocking  smile. 

"Tears!"  he  said.  "Tears."  And  as  if  to  convince  her 
of  the  absurdity  of  weeping,  he  went  back  to  Guide's  door 
and  said,  quite  pleasantly: 

"Good-bye,  Guido,  have  a  good  time  and  don't  forget  to 
bring  me  home  a  big  snow-ball  to  eat  for  my  dessert." 

The  child's  laughter  rang  uncertainly  through  the  room 
as  the  door  closed  behind  the  man.  Frau  Ursula  sat  quite 
still  for  a  moment. 

"He's  not  wholly  evil,"  she  reflected  for  the  thousandth 
time.  The  bargain  had  been  a  dishonest  one  on  her  part, 
without  a  doubt.  That  he  had  pretended  to  accept  it,  and 
in  doing  so  had  been  equally  dishonest  did  not  exculpate 
her.  Women  are  more  moral  than  men — or  ought  to  be. 
She,  in  this  instance,  had  not  been  more  moral  than  the 
man,  and  that  was  the  crux  of  the  situation.  He  was 
justified  in  despising  her.  Matrimony  was  not  a  cloak, 
nor  a  mask.  It  was  a  sacred  institution.  All  civilized 
society  was  based  on  its  recognition  and  on  a  moral  and 
upright  observance  of  its  principle.  She  had  offended 
against  that  principle  in  a  somewhat  unusual  way.  But 
she  had  offended — and  the  impropriety  of  her  conduct  could 
not  be  explained  away.  These  thoughts  harrowed  her — 
not  for  the  first  time.  Amends!  Could  she  make  them? 
Should  she?  If  she  did  make  them  it  would  be  solely  for 
the  ulterior  purpose  of  persuading  Hauser  to  change  his 
manner  toward  Guido.  For  Guide's  sake  she  was  willing 
to  make  very  nearly  any  sacrifice.  She  thrust  the  thought 
into  the  mental  cupboard  where  she  kept  all  the  tentatives 
and  possibilities  which  required  serious  consideration  at 
an  indefinite  future  time. 

She  roused  herself  from  her  revery  and  began  her 
preparations  for  the  day.  The  immediate  thing  to  be  at 
tended  to  was  the  telephoning. 

She  rang  up  Guide's  physician  first. 

Dr.  Koenig  was  a  very  old  man  and  he  and  Frau  Ursula 
were  excellent  friends.  Like  the  first  Guido  von  Estritz, 
he  too  was  an  Achtundvierziger,  but  he  did  not  speak  often 
of  that  period  of  his  life.  The  recollections  evoked  were 
too  painful.  Possibly,  also,  he  felt  that  his  listeners  felt 


CHILDHOOD  45 

a  perfunctory  interest  only  in  what  had  been  to  him  the 
most  vital  part  of  life.  He  was  hale  and  hearty  at  eighty, 
and  quite  as  sound  mentally  as  physically,  circumstances 
which  he  ascribed  to  the  conjoined  facts  that,  as  an  old 
bachelor,  he  had  escaped  the  vicissitudes  and  excitements 
of  matrimony,  and  that  he  ate  plain,  wholesome,  coarse 
food — derbe  Hausmannskost — as  he  called  it.  He  had 
been  through  the  Civil  War  as  a  surgeon.  Of  that  ex 
perience  also  he  was  loath  to  speak.  There  clung  to  him 
and  emanated  from  him  an  air  of  such  superlative  honesty 
and  unfeigned,  downright  goodness  that  Frau  Ursula  on 
meeting  him  nine  years  ago,  had,  as  she  subsequently 
avowed,  loved  him  from  the  first  as  a  sort  of  secondary 
father. 

She  rang  up  Dr.  Koenig  ostensibly  to  obtain  his  permis 
sion  for  the  outing.  In  truth,  she  desired  to  shift  the  re 
sponsibility  to  his  shoulders,  for  she  knew  very  well  that 
he  would  approve. 

"Praechtig,"  he  cried  back  over  the  wire  in  answer  to 
her  query.  "You  couldn't  have  a  finer  day.  I  have  a 
serious  operation  at  the  hospital.  Otherwise  I'd  be  tempted 
to  go  with  you  and  my  little  patient." 

Next  she  telephoned  for  the  sleigh.  The  third  call  was  a 
message  to  be  carried  to  Frau  Schuster,  a  very  old  and 
decrepit  lady  who  came  every  day  to  sit  with  Guido.  This 
gave  Frau  Ursula  liberty  of  movement  and  time  to  attend 
to  her  household  duties  and  to  her  tasks  at  the  store,  which 
she  had  voluntarily  assumed  and  which  consisted  of  a  daily 
inspection  of  the  kitchen  of  the  restaurant  which  Hauser 
had  installed  in  the  basement  of  his  shop  in  imitation  of 
the  New  York  stores.  Frau  Ursula  also  attended  to  the 
ordering  for  the  restaurant,  paid  the  bills,  kept  tab  on  the 
linen  closet  and  on  the  stores  and  generally  acted  as 
manager.  Hauser  had  offered  to  pay  his  wife  a  regular 
salary.  This  she  had  declined.  Caste  pride  was  by  no 
means  extinct  in  her,  and  it  had  gone  against  the  grain 
to  identify  herself  with  something  so  plebeian  as  the  res 
taurant  of  a  department  store.  She  had  done  so  solely 
because  she  hoped  that  her  largeness  of  view  would  in 
duce  in  her  husband  a  responsive  kindness  and  that  his 
behavior  toward  Guido  would  be  materially  modified 


46  THE  HYPHEN 

thereby.  Her  hopes,  as  we  have  seen,  had  not  been  ful 
filled. 

Last  of  all  she  telephoned  to  Frau  Baumgarten.  Otto 
Baumgarten  had  been  a  classmate  of  Guido's  during 
Guide's  last  brief  interim  of  health.  After  Guido's  relapse 
into  invalidism,  Otto,  with  doglike  devotion,  came  punc 
tually  every  day  at  half-past  three  to  bring  Guido  the  day's 
lessons  and  to  elucidate  what  was  needful  for  a  comprehen 
sion  of  the  home-work.  The  scheme  worked  admirably 
and  had  enabled  Guido  to  keep  up  with  his  class  through 
out  two  years.  Both  boys  were  exceptionally  intelligent, 
and  Otto's  role  of  tutor  and  coach  was  facilitated  by 
Guido's  aptness  as  a  pupil. 

Frau  Ursula  informed  Frau  Baumgarten  of  the  project 
in  hand,  asking  her  to  allow  Otto  to  miss  this  one  day  in 
school  so  that  he  might  share  the  pleasure  of  his  little 
friend. 

"Ach!"  Frau  Baumgarten  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire 
heaved  an  audible  sigh.  "My  lad  would  love  it!  But,  what 
will  you?  So  strict  is  my  man  with  the  boy.  He  would 
be  angry.  Ach!  So  very  angry  if  such  a  thing  I  per 
mitted." 

"Couldn't  you  'phone  your  husband  at  his  office  and 
get  his  permission?"  Frau  Ursula  suggested. 

"What?  'Phone  him  to  his  office?"  The  consternation 
expressed  by  Frau  Baumgarten's  voice  struck  Frau  Ursula 
as  exquisitely  funny.  Frau  Baumgarten  was  a  plump, 
good-hearted,  whole-souled  but  simple-minded  woman, 
who  stood  greatly  in  awe  of  her  spiessbuergerlicher  hus 
band.  Frau  Ursula  pictured  the  good  little  woman  stand 
ing  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire,  mouth  agape,  eyes  popping 
out  of  her  head  with  horror  at  Frau  Ursula's  ruthless 
attempt  to  instigate  a  domestic  rebellion  in  the  Baumgarten 
household.  "Never,  never  could  I  think  of  doing  such  a 
thing,  Hebe  Frau  Hauser !  Ach,  you  are  lucky  !  Your  man 
allows  you  a  free  hand  with  your  boy.  But  I  thank  you  for 
the  invitation  all  the  same." 

With  a  little  shrug  of  contempt  Frau  Ursula  rang  off. 
Frau  Baumgarten  had  remained  the  typical  German  Haus- 
frau.  She  had  absolutely  no  will  and  no  mind  of  her  own. 
She  did  her  husband's  bidding,  thought  his  thoughts,  used 
his  language.  America  had  wrought  absolutely  no  change 


CHILDHOOD  47 

in  her  mental  outlook.  Frau  Ursula  sighed.  The  contempt 
which  she  had  felt  a  moment  before  for  Otto's  mother 
became  strongly  tinctured  with  pity.  She  herself  had 
undergone  such  a  spiritual  expansion  since  her  transplanta 
tion  that  it  was  difficult  for  her  to  understand  the  arrested 
growth,  the  rigid  adherence  to  primitive  forms  of  wifehood 
which  hall-marked  so  many  of  her  German-American 
sisters. 

Guide  had  been  straining  every  nerve  to  catch  what  he 
could  of  the  telephonic  conversation. 

"Won't  Tante  Baumgarten  let  Otto  come?"  he  demanded. 

"She  would,  I  think.  But  Otto's  father  would  object," 
Frau  Ursula  replied. 

"Fathers,"  said  the  boy  with  great  unction,  "are  a 
nuisance." 

"Guido !" 

"I  shouldn't  have  said  that,  I  know,"  said  the  boy,  un- 
repentantly. 

"You  shouldn't  have  thought  it,"  said  Frau  Ursula  with 
an  entirely  insincere  emphasis. 

"Well,  didn't  Father  begin  by  being  horrid  again  this 
morning?"  Guido  retorted.  "Why  does  he  always  call 
me  'your  Highness?'  Why  does  he  always  sneer  at  me 
the  way  he  does?  Is  it  because  I'm  sick  all  the  time? 
That's  not  my  fault,  is  it?  And  1  tried  to  be  decent.  I 
asked  him  to  come  with  us — though  neither  of  us  really 
wanted  him — why  can't  he  be  half -ways  nice " 

"I  decline  to  discuss  your  father  with  you,"  said  Frau 
Ursula.  Her  blood  was  beating  wildly  in  her  heart,  at 
her  temples,  against  her  wrists.  "Amends !"  The  thought 
which  she  had  scrapped  and  cast  into  the  junk-room  of  her 
mind  for  consideration  at  some  uncertain  date,  resurrected 
itself  and  came  and  stared  her  impudently  in  the  face. 

If  her  husband  continued  to  drench  the  child  in  sarcasm, 
serious  injury  to  the  boy's  character  was  bound  to  result. 
Moral  cowardice  and  dissimulation  were  the  most  negligible 
of  these  injuries.  Alternating  with  fear,  she  had  seen  on 
Guide's  face  the  shadow  of  so  black  an  anger  that  her 
heart  had  stood  still  with  fright.  For  she  realized  that 
anger,  continually  fed  by  righteous  indignation,  must  turn 
itself  into  an  explosive  as  pregnant  and  deadly  as  dynamite. 
Moral  and  mental  attributes,  von  Estritz  and  Varvara 


48  THE  HYPHEN 

Alexandrovna  to  the  contrary,  are  perhaps  not  synthetizable. 
There  was  in  Guide's  blood  that  which  Frau  Ursula  must 
look  upon  as  the  taint  of  blood-guilt.  What  shape,  then, 
or  form,  would  an  explosion  of  his  anger  take?  Frau 
Ursula  felt  a  tremor  of  painful  apprehension. 

She  banished  these  distressing  thoughts,  spoke  cheerfully 
to  Guido,  who  was  looking  unhappy  because  she  had  re 
buked  him,  and  dressed  herself  and  the  child.  They  started 
at  ten  o'clock.  Mercury  had  dropped  steadily  since  dawn, 
and  the  day  had  brightened  perceptibly.  The  sharp  decline 
in  the  temperature  had  transformed  the  landscape  for  miles 
around  into  surpassing,  unimagined  loveliness.  Every 
pillar  and  post  was  a  sentinel  raimented  in  argent  armor, 
shining  more  magically  and  brightly  than  the  most  splendid 
coat-of-arms  ever  forged  by  Italian  armorer.  Every  tree 
was  a  tower  of  silver.  The  very  roads  were  shimmering 
incandescently  as  if  studded  with  all  the  jewels  of  Aladdin's 
cave.  And  the  music  made  by  the  wind  as  it  moved  among 
the  branches  of  the  trees,  stiff  and  unresponsive  in  their 
precious  raiment,  was  something  no  orchestra  nor  instru 
ment  thereof — not  violin  nor  lute  nor  woodhorn  nor  even 
the  voice  of  the  harp  wedded  to  the  song  of  the  organ — 
might  imitate. 

The  ice-encased  wind  which  beat  against  their  faces  made 
conversation  impossible.  Frau  Ursula  slipped  a  veil  across 
the  child's  forehead  and  mouth  to  protect  him  from  the 
unaccustomed  cold,  and  the  ride  continued  in  a  silence 
unbroken  save  by  the  merry  jingling  of  the  sleigh-bells  and 
the  crunching  of  the  runners  against  the  hard  crust  of  the 
snow.  Guido  was  strangely  silent  throughout  the  dinner 
which  they  ate  at  a  small  road-house.  Frau  Ursula  thought 
he  was  too  fatigued  to  speak,  and  hired  a  room  for  a  few 
hours  so  that  Guido  might  rest.  But  he  could  not — or 
would  not — sleep.  And  he  refused  to  speak.  His  pre 
occupation  continued  throughout  the  homelap,  and  extended 
itself  through  the  evening  meal  and  evening.  To  all  of 
her  agonized  questions,  "Are  you  quite  well,  mein  Herzens- 
junge?  Nun,  wo  fehlt  es,  denn?"  he  replied  with  vapid 
politeness : 

"I  am  quite  well,  thank  you.  Ich  habe  mich  koestlich 
amuesirt." 

She  fell  back  upon  her  theory  of  fatigue,  and  ascribed 


CHILDHOOD  49 

to  that  this  curious  inhibition  of  his  speaking  powers.  She 
put  out  his  light  a  nine  o'clock — he  had  gone  right  to 
bed  on  reaching  home — and,  not  hearing  a  sound,  concluded 
that  he  had  gone  asleep.  At  half-past  eleven,  however, 
after  she  had  retired  to  the  couch  in  Guide's  room  on 
which  she  slept  during  his  long  illnesses,  she  heard  a 
plaintive  wail  issuing  out  of  the  darkness. 

" Mutter chen,  are  you  asleep?"  a  very  wide-awake  voice 
inquired. 

"Nein,  mein  Liebling." 

"Mutterchen,  I  cannot  sleep.  Mutterchen,  the  dark 
bothers  me." 

She  rose  and  lighted  the  gas.  Guido  was  sitting  up  in 
bed,  his  hair  disheveled  by  the  combing  of  nervous  fingers, 
his  cheeks  flushed  and  warm,  his  eyes  shining  with  a 
feverish  light. 

"Mutterchen!  The  beauty  of  all  we  saw  stabs  me  like 
a  knife.  It  hurts.  All  those  fairy  bowers — those — those 
Pantheons  of  snow  and  ice!" 

So  this — ecstasy — was  the  reason  of  his  strange  silence 
throughout  the  excursion  and  throughout  the  evening.  And 
she  had  thought  him  numbed  with  fatigue! 

The  child  burst  into  a  rhapsody  which  would  not  be 
quelled.  He  insisted  on  analyzing,  dissecting  and  describ 
ing  his  experience.  In  his  hands,  under  his  fingering,  the 
excursion  became  an  adventure,  a  thing  unique,  a  thing  of 
beauty  and  moral  significance.  He  ransacked  the  books 
he  had  read — and  he  had  read  much  for  a  boy  of  eleven — 
for  comparisons,  only  to  reject  them  as  stale  and  inade 
quate.  Then  he  fell  to  inventing  descriptions  of  his  own. 
The  flights  his  imagination  took  were  sparkling,  electric, 
dashing.  In  spite  of  his  meager  child's  vocabulary,  plugged 
here  and  there  with  royal  words,  every  phrase  held  a  com 
pressed  thought,  every  sentence  was  volcanic.  His  lyric 
ecstasy  led  him  into  a  wilderness  peopled  by  strange,  elfish 
creatures,  which,  having  long  inhabited  the  subconscious 
stratum  of  his  imagination,  now  boldly  scurried  out  into  the 
welcome  light  of  full  consciousness. 

Frau  Ursula,  on  that  momentous  night,  experienced  the 
same  sensations  which  had  flowed  through  head  and  veins 
upon  her  first  reading  of  "Kubla  Khan."  The  thing  was 
eerie,  extramundane.  Through  two  long  hours  she  tried 


50  THE  HYPHEN 

in  vain  to  soothe  the  febrile  excitement  which  seemed  to 
eat  into  the  very  flesh  of  the  child  and  to  shrivel  it  before 
her  eyes. 

She  was  frightened  from  the  first  and  finally  she  became 
terrified.  Should  she  telephone  for  Dr.  Koenig?  He  was 
so  old  that  she  hated  to  ask  him  to  come  out  on  a  bitter- 
cold  and  slippery  night.  Bromides?  Possibly,  Dr.  Koenig 
had  cautioned  her  against  administering  them  unless  abso 
lutely  necessary.  Yet  neither  Dr.  Koenig  nor  bromides 
were  required  that  night  for  Guido.  Unexpectedly  the  door 
opened  and  Hauser  slipped  into  the  room,  clad  in  a  warm- 
looking,  dark-red  and  black  blanket-robe. 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  he  demanded,  using  his  favor 
ite  phrase.  "Do  you  know  what  time  it  is  ?  It's  long  after 
midnight.  I  was  asleep.  But  what  does  that  matter? 
When  his  Royal  Highness  goes  atraveling,  the  stars  stand 
still  in  their  courses,  the  earth  stops  revolving,  and  little 
men  must  lie  awake !" 

Guido  stared  stupidly  at  the  apparition  in  the  bath-robe, 
which  now  bowed,  including  woman  and  child  in  the 
mockery  of  the  genuflection. 

"May  a  mere  mortal  inquire  whether  your  Highness  in 
tends  to  rave  all  night?  If  you  desire,  I'll  fetch  pencil 
and  pad  and  act  as  your  amanuensis.  You  may  wish  to 
publish  some  day." 

A  look  of  fright  came  into  the  child's  face.  His  eyes 
lingered  on  Hauser's  face  in  dread  fascination. 

Frau  Ursula  rose  from  the  child's  bed.  She  looked  very 
lovely  in  an  old-rose  dressing  gown  of  soft  taffeta,  trimmed 
with  rich  falls  of  creamy  lace  at  the  neck  and  wrists.  The 
gown  opened  low  upon  the  bosom,  hinting  of  unrevealed 
splendors.  She  was  roused  past  the  point  where  prudence 
cloaks  itself  in  meekness,  and  she  rose  before  the  man 
like  an  avenging  angel — the  pale  aureole  of  honey-colored 
hair  which  framed  the  white,  fiercely  quiet  face  suggesting 
the  analogy. 

She  was  at  the  moment  entirely  magnificent  in  a  purely 
feminine  way,  and  her  husband  was  by  no  means  impervious 
to  her  charm.  There  was  on  his  part  a  quickening  of  the 
respiration,  a  sharp  intake  of  breath,  a  dilating  of  the 
nostrils.  And,  "Ursula"  he  breathed,  the  century-old  stress 
of  Adam  in  his  voice. 


CHILDHOOD  51 

"You  will  kindly  leave  my  room  at  once !"  said  his  wife. 
Her  tone  scorched,  froze,  annihilated.  The  man  flushed 
to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  Without  another  word  he  turned 
and  went  from  the  room. 

"Go  to  sleep  now,  Guido,"  she  said,  quietly. 

To  her  surprise,  Guido  turned  over  on  his  side,  and 
breathing  deeply,  fell  asleep  almost  instantly.  The  shock 
which  Hauser's  unexpected  advent  had  communicated  to  the 
boy,  had  resolved  the  nervous  complex  which  had  tormented 
him  all  afternoon  and  evening. 

Noiselessly  Frau  Ursula  turned  down  the  gas.  Then  she 
fortressed  her  room  by  shooting  the  bolt.  But  she  could 
not  sleep.  An  emotion  lying  half-way  between  anger 
and  fright,  an  emotion,  moreover,  of  which  Guido  for  once 
did  not  enjoy  the  lion's  share,  impelled  her  to  go  to  the 
dining-room  to  seek  such  comfort  as  an  oil-stove  and  a 
lamp  might  give.  To  her  amazement  she  found  that  both 
oil-stove  and  lamp  had  already  been  pressed  into  service. 
At  the  table,  a  stack  of  letters  and  bills  before  him,  sat 
the  husband. 

"If  you  desire  to  be  alone,"  he  said,  "I  can  go  to  the 
parlor."  There  was  a  new  note  in  his  voice. 

The  parlor  was  uninhabitable  at  one  o'clock  of  a  Feb 
ruary  morning,  and  she  said  so,  adding,  as  a  sudden  impulse 
came  to  her: 

"I  would  like  to  speak  to  you — if  you  can  spare  the 
time." 

He  laughed  sardonically — the  suggestion  was  so  absurd. 
He  rose  and  fetched  her  a  chair  and  although  she  was 
eager  to  attribute  the  motive  of  mockery  to  his  action,  she 
was  unable  to  detect  in  him  any  derisiveness,  veiled  or 
otherwise.  This  softened  her.  She  began,  pointlessly: 

"I  have  not  always  been  fair  to  you  in  the  past." 

"Nor  I  to  you,  Ursula,"  he  retorted,  gently. 

Was  he  scenting  her  half-formed,  half-chaotic  impulse 
to  make  him  what  amends  she  could?  Was  he  indulging 
in  vagrant  hopes?  His  wife  contrarily  stiffened  into  im 
placable  animosity  on  the  instant. 

"We  cannot  possibly  go  on  this  way  any  longer,"  she 
resumed,  a  statement  whose  vagueness  he  again  chose  to 
interpret  amiably. 

"No,"  he  said,  meditatively,  "we  cannot.    That  is  true." 


52  THE  HYPHEN 

"Erich,"  she  leaned  forward,  impetuously,  "at  the  time 
of  our  marriage " 

"Marriage  ?"  He  had  relapsed  into  ironic  bitterness  and 
she  became  frightened,  nervous,  disheartened.  She  had 
intended  to  say  to  him  she  hardly  knew  what.  Perhaps, 
subconsciously,  she  was  more  willing  to  place  their  union 
on  an  honest  footing  than  she  realized.  But  now  that  he 
had  put  her  out,  she  began  to  blunder  and  stumble,  and  she 
found  herself  saying  that  which  she  was  not  at  all  certain 
she  had  intended  to  say  when  she  began.  She  had  hoped 
that  he  would  help  her — and  he  had  not  helped  her.  She 
was  miserably  ill  at  ease. 

"Bargain,  then,"  she  said.  "At  the  time  of  our  marri — 
bargain — I  told  you  that  if  at  any  time  you  desired  a 

divorce "  She  hesitated  and  stopped.  She  was  all 

awry.  The  muddle  between  them  was  hopeless — hope 
less 

"Is  that  what  you've  come  to  say  to  me  at  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning?"  he  roared,  in  sudden  anger. 

"Sssssh — you'll  wake  Guido,"  she  cried,  in  alarm. 

"D — n  Guido,"  quoth  the  man.  She  was  fair  enough 
not  to  blame  him  for  that,  but  that  did  not  deter  her  from 
suggesting,  craftily: 

"If  he  wakens,  he  will  keep  you  awake,  too." 

"Bah !"  Hauser  shoved  himself  back  from  the  table. 
"The  racket  Guido  made  woke  me  it  is  true,  but  it's  not 
Guido  who  is  keeping  me  awake.  It's  you.  Oh,  Ursula !" 

She  shrank  back  abashed.  And  yet  she  knew  how  matters 
were  with  him.  She  was  too  fine-grained  a  woman  not 
to  realize  that  the  man's  fiercely  denunciatory  utterance  of 
her  name  was  a  cry  of  the  soul  piercing  the  mask  of  the 
flesh,  not  a  cry  of  the  flesh  itself.  She  had  the  grace  to 
be  thoroughly  ashamed.  Her  innate  goodness  rose  in 
revolt  at  the  sight  of  her  own  handiwork.  "This,"  her 
inner  voice  whispered,  "is  the  result  of  Virtue  militant  and 
triumphant.  What  might  Virtue  conciliatory  have  made 
of  this  man?"  And  again  the  words,  "Amends,  amends, 
amends"  roared  in  her  ears  like  the  turbulent  song  of  a 
cascade. 

"And  you  have  the  impudence  to  speak  to  me  of  divorce," 
he  continued,  brutally  savage.  "You  pretend  to  think  that 
I  want  a  divorce.  Well,  I  don't.  You  say  we  cannot  go 


CHILDHOOD  53 

on  in  the  old  way.  I  thought  we  couldn't.  But  we  can 
and  we  shall  and  we  will." 

She  had  a  quick  temper  and  it  flared  up  violently  now. 
Knowing  that  her  attitude  had  been  one  of  conciliation 
and  that  at  the  end  of  a  day  which  he  had  made  a  par 
ticularly  trying  one,  she  had  a  sense  of  having  been  re 
jected.  She  knew  that  it  was  preposterously  unfair  to 
nurture  that  sense,  for  she  had  rebuffed  him  so  often  that, 
without  a  very  definite  and  candid  advance  on  her  part  he 
could  hardly  be  expected  to  envisage  her  change  of  sen 
timent. 

She  controlled  her  anger.  It  hardened  and  turned  cold, 
and  from  its  congealed  midst  divorce  now  really  shone  and 
glittered  like  a  desirable  jewel,  like  a  bauble  gleaming  from 
the  center  of  a  huge  cake  of  transparent  ice. 

"Why  are  you  so  opposed  to  a  divorce?"  she  inquired, 
frigidly  polite.  "We  have  both  profited  by  our  bargain," — 
she  did  not  trip  over  the  word  as  she  had  done  before — 
"you  have  made  a  small  fortune  of  your  own,  I  have  ac 
climatized  myself.  Well?" 

"Your  effrontery,  Ursula,  is  sublime."  He  regarded  her 
as  if  she  were  a  new  mechanism,  something  entirely  un- 
apprehended  before.  "You  ask  for  an  explanation  of  my 
unwillingness  to  divorce  you.  You  shall  have  it.  I'll  con 
sent  to  no  divorce  as  a  matter  of  pride."  He  flung  her 
the  scrap  of  truth  for  which  she  had  begged  as  he  might 
have  flung  a  bone  to  a  dog.  "As  a  matter  of  pride,"  he 
repeated,  defiantly. 

"Pride  is  a  low  motive,"  she  remarked,  casually. 

"Who  are  you  to  speak  of  low  motives?"  he  answered. 
"Was  it  a  high  motive  made  you  marry  me?" 

Frau  Ursula  held  her  pretty  head  very  high.  Her  manner 
indicated  that  there  yawned  between  them  not  mere  earthly 
ravines  and  chasms  but  interstellar  spaces. 

"You  absolutely  refuse  a  divorce?"  her  voice  was  bland 
and  chill,  and  it  sent  his  temper  to  seething-point  in  a 
moment's  time. 

"Positively,"  he  snorted. 

Frau  Ursula  rose. 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  sweetly. 

Neither  slept  that  night. 

A    message    received    the   next   morning   advised    Frau 


54  THE  HYPHEN 

Ursula  that  Frau  Schuster  was  too  ill  to  go  out.  Frau 
Ursula  sighed,  and  sought  out  old  Kaetchen,  the  maid  of 
all  work,  in  her  stronghold  the  kitchen. 

Old  Kaetchen  belonged  to  a  type  which  would  be  a  source 
of  unadulterated  joy  to  a  Dickensonian  dramatist,  if  the 
type  were  not  debarred,  by  the  very  substance  of  its  nature, 
from  making  its  debut  upon  any  stage  not  polyglot,  or 
rather  duoglot,  for  old  Kaetchen  spoke  a  jargon  com 
pounded  of  English  and  German  so  subtly  and  fearfully 
intermixed  as  to  render  her  speech  unintelligible  excepting 
to  persons  who  had  a  perfect  command  of  both  languages. 
It  was  a  speech  as  amorphous  and  monstrous  as  Penn 
sylvania  Dutch.  From  old  Kaetchen's  speech  the  patient 
observer  would  have  deduced  that  the  German  language 
was  deficient  in  such  simple  verbs  as  moving,  sweeping, 
jumping;  for,  moved  by  some  subtle  instinct  for  assimila 
tion,  she  had  expelled  these  German  verbs  from  her  vo- 
cabularly  and  had  substituted  the  English  verbs  instead, 
subjecting  them,  however,  to  the  German  method  of  in 
flection — suffixes,  participles,  prefixes  and  all.  Some  Ger 
man  sounds  had  suffered  a  similar  expulsion,  and  certain 
English  sounds,  such  as  carpet,  towel,  sweeper,  pitcher  were 
transplanted  bodily  into  sentences  German  in  idiom,  in 
grammatical  construction  and  otherwise  composed  of  Ger 
man  words.  The  hodge-podge  resulting  from  this  rape 
upon  the  maiden  virtue  of  two  tongues  was  indescribable, 
was  as  grotesque  as  a  gargoyle  and  as  repulsive  as  original 
sin.  It  was  funny,  too,  funny  with  a  Micawber-like, 
Falstaffian  funniness.  Guido,  who  had  the  ear  of  a  purist, 
went  into  fits  of  ungovernable  laughter  when  poor  old 
Kaetchen,  who  in  addition  was*  as  ponderous  as  Hebe  and 
as  solemn  as  a  moping  owl,  narrated  some  of  her  adven 
tures  in  this  vernacular  of  her  own.  For  Kaetchen,  aged 
three  score  and  three,  had  adventures.  All  her  minor 
adventures  revolved  about  her  husband,  who  had  also  been 
the  major  adventure  of  her  life.  He  was  a  longshoreman, 
and  every  morning  at  five-thirty  ate  a  bowl  of  pea-soup 
and  bacon  for  breakfast,  which  Kaetchen  had  cooked  for 
him  the  fireless  overnight.  She  had  to  cook  it  every 
night,  for  he  would  not  eat  warmed-over  food.  How  she 
had  managed  to  have  pea-soup,  which  requires  three  hours' 
cooking,  ready  for  him  as  a  matutinal  repast  before  the 


CHILDHOOD  55 

invasion  of  fireless  cookers,  no  one  knew.  Frau  Ursula 
had  variously  tried  to  probe  into  the  secret,  but  Kaetchen 
resolutely  refused  to  divulge  it,  and  pea-soup,  at  5.30  A.M., 
was  destined  to  remain  a  mystery  as  great  as  the  Man  in 
the  Iron  Mask.  The  secret  of  it  would  descend  into  the 
grave  with  herself. 

Frau  Ursula,  in  lieu  of  Frau  Schuster,  requested  this 
human  Tower  of  Babel  to  wait  on  Guido  should  he  require 
anything  before  her  return.  It  was  necessary  for  her  to 
look  in  at  the  store,  as  she  had  not  been  there  at  all  the 
previous  day,  and  she  was  going  to  stop  at  Dr.  Koenig's 
office.  She  expected  to  be  home  for  lunch,  not  before. 

Old  Kaetchen,  who  was  good-nature  personified,  and 
loved  Guido  dearly,  although  he  teased  her  so  outrageously, 
promised  to  attend  to  everything.  Her  speech  was  even 
more  hieroglyphic  than  usual,  and  Frau  Ursula  did  not 
bother  to  unpuzzle  all  of  it.  Guido  would  be  looked  after 
— that  was  all  that  mattered. 


CHAPTER  II 

"TT7ELL,"  said  Dr.  Koenig,   coming  forward  to  meet 

VV  Frau  Ursula  with  outstretched  hand,  "Wie  geht 
es,  Frau  Hauser?"  He  spoke  German,  of  course,  as  did 
the  entire  German  contingent  of  Anasquoit.  "Did  Guido 
enjoy  his  outing?" 

'Too  much  so,  Herr  Doktor,  entirely  too  much  so,"  Frau 
Ursula  replied,  and  acquainted  him  with  the  experiences  of 
the  night  so  far  as  they  concerned  his  patient. 

"Now,  why,"  she  concluded,  "should  Guido  go  off  at  a 
tangent  like  that  whenever  anything  happens  to  strike  his 
fancy  particularly?" 

"Meine  Hebe  Frau  Hauser!"  The  portly  old  gentleman 
leaned  far  back  in  his  comfortable  swivel-chair.  "You 
have  every  reason  for  gratitude  that  the  boy's  emotional 
excess  is  caused  only  by  pleasurable  excitement.  If  it  were 
otherwise,  considering  the  pain  the  unfortunate  little  chap 
had  endured  in  his  brief  life,  we  would  have  a  lunatic  on 
our  hands.  His  keen  zest  for  life,  his  joy  in  beauty  where 
soever  found,  is  probably  the  fountain-head  of  the  astonish 
ing  resilience  he  has  shown  in  combating  his  disease." 

"Ach!"  said  Frau  Ursula,  "I  never  thought  of  it  in  that 
light." 

"(I  coniess,"  Dr.  Koenig  continued,  "Guido  is  a  sort  of 
human  puzzle.  I  mean  the  child,  not  his  disease.  The 
child  has  in  him  so  very  much  less  of  the  clodhopper  than 
most  children  have,  at  his  age ;  so  much  less  than  I  had,  so 
much  less,  I  venture  to  assert,  than  his  father  had. 
Heredity  and  environment!  Those,  Frau  Hauser,  are  the 
two  magic  keys  which  will  some  day  unriddle  us  the  Science 
of  Humanity.  Ethnologists  tell  us  that  the  skulls  of  chil 
dren  born  of  alien  parents  on  this  soil  differ  radically  from 
the  skulls  of  their  parents.  What  causes  this  ?  A  different 
soil?  A  different  climate?  A  different  atmosphere?" 
Dr.  Koenig  made  a  rhetorical  pause.  He  seemed  strangely 

56 


CHILDHOOD  57 

excited.     "We  stand  here  on  the  threshold  of   a  great 
mystery — perhaps  the  mystery  of  racial  divergencies." 

Frau  Ursula  was  nonplused.  There  was  about  her 
nothing  of  the  bluestocking,  and  she  had  no  very  clear 
perception  of  what  the  old  physician  was  driving  at. 

"Now,"  the  old  man  continued,  "Guido  differs  so  mark 
edly  in  every  salient  characteristic — physical  as  well  as 
mental — from  you  and  from  Mr.  Hauser,  that  I  am  sorely 
perplexed  to  explain  the  phenomenon,  unless  I  fall  back 
upon  a  theory — a  pet  theory— which  I  framed  some  years 
ago." 

Frau  Ursula  turned  pale.  Was  she  never  to  be  allowed 
to  forget  the  Synthesis?  Here  it  was,  wriggling  its  hated 
form  into  sight  when  she  least  expected  it. 

"Why,"  continued  Dr.  Koenig,  "why,  I  ask,  should  this 
differentiation  appear  between  parents  and  offspring  born 
on  the  same  soil?  As  your  boy  was.  Hitherto  I  always 
believed  that  nativity  on  a  new  soil  was  an  important  factor. 
I  believed  that  some  subtle  virtue  inhered  in  American 
soil.  I  did  indeed.  But  your  boy  upsets  that  theory.  He 
upsets  it,  completely.  It  is  shattered,  and  I  must  recon 
struct  it.  Of  course,  transplantation " 

Frau  Ursula  heard  no  more,  she  was  too  intent  on  the 
Synthesis,  which  had  crawled  out  into  the  full  glare  of 
consciousness.  She  could  endure  that  clandestine  presence 
no  longer. 

"Guido  was  born  in  America,"  she  said,  tentatively. 

"Impossible!"  Frau  Ursula  assumed  that  the  doctor's 
ejaculation  had  been  caused  by  certain  discrepencies  in 
chronology  which  must  inevitably  occur  to  him.  But  he 
was  still  engrossed  by  his  theory.  He  could  not  im 
mediately  drag  his  attention  away  from  it.  "Impossible," 
he  repeated,  and  she  perceived  that  he  was  thinking  aloud. 
"Nativity  or  transplantation,  whatever  it  is,  I  believe,  Frau 
Hauser,  that  there  is  some  medicinal  quality  in  American 
air,  or  in  American  soil,  which  changes  men  and  women 
for  the  better.  By  that  I  do  not  mean  a  physical  tonic, 
but  a  spiritual  one.  Yes,"  he  exclaimed  vehemently,  as  if 
bearing  down  a  disputatious  opponent,  "I  still  believe  it, 
I  shall  always  believe  it,  but  I've  not  been  able  to  prove 
it."  Suddenly  he  recollected  himself.  "Forgive  me  my 
little  homily,"  he  said,  "but  I'm  a  fanatic  in  my  passion 


58  THE  HYPHEN 

for  our  country.  There's  not  another  like  it.  It's  unique, 
supreme,  unmatchable.  It  is  everything  to  everybody. 
And  it's  my  religion." 

"And  part  of  mine,"  said  Frau  Ursula  fervently. 

"No,"  said  the  doctor,  smiling,  "I  think  it  has  no  share 
in  yours.  Guido  is  your  religion.  But — dear  lady!  How 
can  the  child  have  been  born  here?  He  was  two  years  old 
when  you  arrived  in  America — you  called  me  in  the  very 
first  night  after  coming  to  Anasquoit.  I  remember  it  per 
fectly.  And  you  told  me  that  evening  that  you  had  never 
been  in  America  before." 

"That  is  quite  true,"  Frau  Ursula  assented,  "Guido  was 
born  in  America  and  I  had  never  been  here  before.  You 
see — Guido  is  not  my  child." 

Dr.  Koenig  was  stunned.  He  sat  well  forward  in  his 
chair,  clutching  the  arms,  staring  hard  and  saying  nothing. 
Frau  Ursula  regarded  him,  smiling  broadly.  Suddenly  he 
exclaimed : 

"That  leaves  my  theory  just  where  it  was  before !  But, 
am  I  to  hear  about  Guido?  Is  there  anything  to  tell?" 

"There  is."  And  she  related  the  entire  story  of  Guido's 
parentage  and  birth  and  rescue,  suppressing  only  the  cir 
cumstances  of  her  love  for  the  boy's  father.  Last  of  all 
she  told  him  about  the  Synthesis.  She  told  the  tale  spas 
modically,  almost  explosively.  The  story  seemed  to  burst 
from  her  simultaneously  at  all  points,  like  a  disrupting 
shell.  Dr.  Koenig  listened  attentively.  He  seemed  tre 
mendously  interested. 

"A  eugenic  baby!"  he  exclaimed,  finally. 

"His  father  had  consumption,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  dryly. 

"A  spiritually  eugenic  baby,"  the  Doctor  amended.  "To 
unify  different  and  opposing  currents  of  thought  in  one 
person.  Kollossal!"  he  exclaimed,  fervently,  and  added, 
"I  hope  I  shall  live  long  enough  to  see  what  it  comes  to. 
Weissmann,  Madame,  what  did  Weissmann  say  about  it!" 

Frau  Ursula  mistook  the  exclamation  for  a  question. 
She  had  never  heard  of  Weissmann,  and  said  so.  He  had 
nothing  to  do  with  Guido. 

"He  has  everything  to  do  with  Guido!"  shouted  Dr. 
Koenig.  "Acquired  traits  cannot  be  transmitted !  Ha ! 
Can't  they?  H'm.  H'm.  I  suppose  political  tendencies 
are  innate  after  all — germ  cells,  not  soma — H'm.  Most 


CHILDHOOD  59 

remarkable."  Suddenly  he  ceased  his  ruminations.  "You 
have  not  told  me  who  the  parents  of  the  boy  were!" 

"His  mother's  name  was  Varvara  Alexandrovna  Vasalov ; 
his  father's  Guido  von  Estritz." 

The  old  physician  struck  his  fist  resoundingly  upon  the 
arm  of  his  chair.  "Fool!"  he  cried,  apostrophizing  himself. 
"Idiot!  Were  my  eyes  smitten  with  blindness?  And  the 
name  Guido !  Madame,  I  knew  the  lad's  grandfather  well. 
He  made  his  escape  from  Berlin  the  same  day  I  did.  We 
met  in  Switzerland  and  we  shipped  for  America  in  the 
same  vessel.  Guido  von  Estritz,  myself,  Kunb  von  der 
Linde,  Hasbacher,  Dr.  Erbach  and  others  whose  names  I 
have  forgotten." 

"Dr.  Erbach,  too?"  Frau  Ursula  showed  amazement. 
Dr.  Erbach  was  a  famous  specialist  in  juvenile  diseases, 
and  at  Dr.  Koenig's  suggestion,  she  had  consulted  him 
several  years  earlier  about  Gudio. 

"Yes,  Erbach,  too,  of  course!"  And  he  plunged  into 
reminiscences  of  the  Year  Forty-Eight.  "We  belonged 
to  the  some  organization  in  Berlin — the  Social-Democratic 
Club,  but  we  were  not  socialists  in  the  sense  that  socialism 
carries  to-day.  What  we  believed  in  was  Democracy — 
at  least  in  a  constitutional  government,  in  a  responsible 
ministry,  in  universal  manhood  suffrage.  That  was  really 
all  we  were  fighting  for.  And  how  we  fought.  How 
we  struggled  to  disseminate  the  ideas  which  were  to  unite 
all  the  German  states,  which  were  to  make  them  free.  Ah, 
Madame !  You  and  I  spring  from  a  great  race,  none  can 
gainsay  it,  but  there  is  lacking  in  that  race  something — I 
do  not  know  just  what — which  keeps  them  enslaved." 

"Enslaved!"  Frau  Ursula  echoed,  in  surprise.  "But 
Germany  has  a  constitution  to-day,  has  she  not?" 

"Oh,  yes."  Dr.  Koenig  laughed  sardonically.  "But 
Germany  has  neither  a  government  representative  of  all 
of  the  people  on  a  numerical  basis,  as  we  have,  nor  a 
ministry  responsible  to  the  people,  as  England  has.  Ger 
many  is  not  merely  enslaved.  She  is  content  to  remain 
enslaved.  Her  ancient  idealism  has  turned  to  a  meretri 
cious,  unwholesome  reverence  for  caste,  for  power  as 
power,  and  she  has  grown  so  fat-headed  through  material 
prosperity,  that  she  has  all  but  lost  the  power  of  inde 
pendent  thought.  God  pity  Germany  when  the  day  of 


60  THE  HYPHEN 

reckoning  somes — the  reckoning,  I  mean,  which  comes  to 
all  who  sell  their  birthright  for  a  mess  of  red  pottage." 

Frau  Ursula  did  not  comprehend  a  word  of  all  this. 
She  was,  as  has  been  said  before,  not  a  clever  woman 
excepting  in  purely  feminine  avocations,  and  in  those  she 
excelled.  In  a  vague  way  she  understood  that  Germany 
was  being  unfavorably  criticised.  She  cared  not  one  jot 
for  Germany,  and  knew  far  less  about  the  functions  of  the 
German  government  than  she  did  about  American  institu 
tions.  But  Guido  von  Estritz  had  thought  the  German 
government  sacrosanct.  She  felt  uncomfortable  and  un 
happy. 

"Von  Estritz — my  von  Estritz  for  many  years  nurtured 
the  hope  that  he  might  return  to  Germany,"  Dr.  Koenig 
continued. 

"His  son  returned — and  loved  Germany  and  the  German 
government,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  mildly. 

"Loved  the  German  government!  Incredible.  My  dear 
madame,  do  you  know  what  you  are  saying?"  the  old  man 
fairly  blazed  with  indignation. 

Doggedly  she  repeated  her  statement  to  show  that  she 
did. 

"Guido  von  Estritz's  son  loved  the  Germany  of  to-day!" 
the  old  physician  repeated.  He  seemed  outraged  and  hurt. 
"I  never  heard  anything  so  shocking  in  my  life.  It's — 
why,  it's  a  sacrilege !"  he  cried. 

Frau  Ursula  stared  in  bewilderment. 

"Yet,"  she  interposed,  weakly,  "you  say  his  father  wished 
to  return!" 

"Yes,  to  fight!"  the  old  man  shouted.  "To  fight  and 
to  rouse  others  to  fight.  He  did  not  return  because  he 
realized  the  uselessness  of  it  all,  because  he  realized  that 
the  German  people  were  becoming  drunk  with  conceit  and 
greed  and  vaingloriousness." 

"But  what — what  did  he  want  to  fight  for  ?"  Frau  Ursula 
demanded.  This  artless  question,  asked  in  good  faith,  had 
a  remarkable  effect  upon  the  old  physician.  He  shot  from 
his  seat,  walked  wildly  about  the  room  for  a  minute,  and 
then,  returning  to  his  desk,  began  tossing  paper-weights, 
scissors,  penholders  and  other  small  articles  about  like  an 
angry  child.  With  a  pen-knife  he  slashed  vigorously  at 
his  desk-blotter. 


CHILDHOOD  61 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "is  your  husband  an  American 
citizen  ?" 

"He  is,"  she  replied,  "and  I  was  not  content  to  be  an 
American  citizen  by  proxy — as  my  husband's  wife;  so  I 
went  to  the  trouble  of  taking  out  citizen  papers  of  my  own." 

"Good,"  he  cried,  "and  now  tell  me,  why  did  you  become 
an  American  citizen?" 

Frau  Ursula  smiled  at  his  adoption  of  the  Socratic 
method  of  suasion.  She  replied: 

"I  became  an  American  citizen  because  I  love  America. 
I  love  America  because  I  am  happy  here.  I  am  happy  here 
because  my  individuality  has  had  an  opportunity  to  de 
velop  such  as  it  would  never  have  had  abroad.  She  paused. 
Her  mind  glanced  sharply  at  the  past — the  Mecklenburg 
days,  the  trip  to  Russia,  the  unholy  bargain  with  Hauser. 
How  she  pitied  and  despised  the  poor  weakling,  who  had 
made  that  bargain,  welcomed  it,  embraced  it.  To-day,  had 
she  been  free  of  the  hated  yoke,  she  would  have  feared  no 
adventure  and  no  enterprise.  This  much  had  America 
done  for  her. 

"You  have  laid  your  finger  on  the  vital  point,"  Dr.  Koenig 
retorted,  almost  ceremoniously.  "America  develops  individ 
uality  because  she  allows  the  greatest  personal  freedom  to 
the  individual  that  comports  with  the  personal  freedom  and 
the  security  of  all  other  individuals.  She  tolerates  neither 
the  tyranny  of  monarchical  nor  the  tyranny  of  socialistic 
ideas.  And  admitting  all  this,  how  can  you  say  you  admire 
Germany." 

"I  never  said  so !"  Frau  Ursula  repudiated  the  charge  in 
dignantly.  "I  spoke  of  Guide's  father.  Because  he  loved 
Germany  it  does  not  follow  by  any  means  that  I  do.  Ger 
many  means  nothing  to  me  to-day — less  than  nothing.  I 
love  America — more  than  I  can  say.  And  it  was  the  silliest, 
most  trivial  little  episode  imaginable  that  first  opened  my 
eyes  to  the  sterling  democracy  that  permeates  and  invigor 
ates  American  life."  She  talked  glibly  enough  now,  and  she 
understood  thoroughly  what  she  was  talking  about.  But 
all  this  concerned  America — not  Germany.  That  also  Amer 
ica  had  done  for  her. 

Dr.  Koenig  asked  to  be  told  about  the  "silliest  episode." 

She  had,  shortly  after  taking  up  her  sojourn  in  Aras- 
quoit,  met  her  washerwoman  in  the  street.  The  womao 


62  THE  HYPHEN 

stopped  her  to  inquire  after  Guido's  health.  Frau  Ursula, 
who  at  this  time  was  still  permeated  with  the  spirit  of  caste, 
was  surprised  and  annoyed  by  the  woman's  audacity.  For 
a  moment  she  had  been  tempted  to  walk  around  the  woman, 
who  had  blocked  her  progress,  and  ignoring  her,  leave  her 
unanswered.  Her  sound  common  sense,  perhaps  her  kind- 
heartedness  triumphed  over  these  atavistic  prejudices.  She 
saw  from  the  woman's  manner  that  no  disrespect  was  in 
tended.  She  was  neither  servile  nor  insolent.  She  was 
just  one  human  being  feeling  human  interest  and  compas 
sion  in  another  human  being  and  inquiring  about  him  of  a 
third  human  being. 

In  Germany,  not  only  would  the  woman  not  have  dared  to 
address  her  mistress  on  the  street,  but  the  mistress  would 
not  have  dared  to  address  her  help. 

And  so,  through  a  haphazard  meeting  in  the  street  with  a 
woman  in  a  menial  position,  there  was  visualized  for  Frau 
Ursula  the  humanizing  democracy  of  America.  She  felt 
that  the  gods  sometimes  choose  strange  instruments  and  sin 
gular  avenues  of  approach  for  our  conversion  and  spiritual 
consecration. 

"But,  now,"  she  continued,  "perceive  the  predicament  in 
which  I  find  myself.  Although  I  made  no  definite  promise 
to  Guido's  mother  concerning  his  education,  I  feel  a  deli 
cacy,  a  haunting  sense  of  obligation  that  I  must  carry  out 
her  wishes.  That  means,  of  course,  that  if  the  Synthetic 
Experiment  is  to  have  a  fair  trial,  Guido  must  not  be  sub 
jected  to  direct  or  indirect  influence  in  any  way,  not  in  poli 
tics  and  not  in  religion.  The  question  is — how  far  am  I  to 
carry  this  policy  of  No-Bias?  If  I  teach  him  to  love  this 
country,  OUR  country,  as  I  would  like  to  do,  and  as  I  feel 
it  incumbent  to  do,  am  I  then  untrue  to  the  spirit  of  the 
Synthesis  by  breeding  in  him  a  preferential  attitude  toward 
Democratic  institutions  ?" 

"Nonsense!"  the  honest  old  practitioner  exclaimed. 
"Nonsense !  You  just  go  ahead  and  teach  him  to  love 
America  as  much  as  ever  he  can.  If  you  don't,  I  will." 

"But  you  haven't  answered  my  question — you  have 
evaded  it,"  Frau  Ursula  reminded  him.  "Will  not  the 
value  of  the  experiment  in  spiritual  eugenics,  in  the  Political 
Synthesis,  be  very  materially  impaired  thereby?" 

"Ha,"  laughed  Dr.  Koenig.  "You  think  you've  tripped  me. 


CHILDHOOD  63 

I'm  not  sure  that  you  haven't.  I'm  not  sure  you  have.  I'm 
not  sure  there  isn't  a  connection  between  the  two — between 
the  Political  Synthesis  and  American  democracy.  The 
thought  is  vapory,  delicate  as  a  dew-drop,  I  would  need  a 
spider's  web  as  a  seine  in  which  to  drag  it  carefully  into  my 
laboratory. 

"Of  course,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  "I  am  going  to  instill  in 
Guide's  mind  a  wholesome  respect  for  American  law,  all  the 
more  so  as  religious  instruction  is  prohibited." 

"How  is  that?"  Dr.  Koenig  inquired.  "I  myself  am  a 
freethinker,  but  there  are  temperaments  for  whom  a  pro 
nouncedly  teleological  conception  of  the  Why  and  Where 
fore  of  Things  is  necessary.  Why  then  no  religion  ?" 

"Religion  colors  the  mind,  and  Guide's  mind  is  to  retain 
its  virgin  hue  of  white,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  a  little  sarcas 
tically.  "In  all  things.  He  is  to  judge  for  himself  in 
everything." 

Dr.  Koenig  was  aghast. 

"The  boy  is  exceptional,  of  course,"  he  said,  "but  he  will 
have  to  be  quite  prodigiously  exceptional,  you  know,  if  this 
experiment  is  to  work  out  at  all.  I  confess — well,  it's  stag 
gering.  I'm  tremendously  intrigued.  I'm  fascinated. 
There  are  so  many  religions — if  his  mind  is  so  fashioned 
that  he  requires  a  religion  as  a  working  theory  of  the  Uni 
verse,  there  is  no  saying  what  will  happen.  There's  Con 
fucius;  there's  Toaism;  there's  Shinto;  there  are  the  Ad- 
ventists ;  there — what's  the  use  of  enumerating.  There's  no 
saying  which  will  arrest  the  attention  of  our  young  Anda- 
lusian  cockerel  at  the  psychological  moment.  For  the  reli 
gious  impulse,  like  the  sexual,  has  its  nadir  and  its  zenith. 
It  all  depends.  It  all  depends.  Madame,  you  have  a  task 
before  you." 

Frau  Ursula  sighed.  She  was  sufficiently  aware  of  the 
fact  without  being  reminded  of  it. 

"To  educate  a  child  without  any  definite  bias  in  ethics, 
religion,  politics !"  Dr.  Koenig  laughed,  immoderately.  It 
occurred  to  him  for  the  first  time  that  Thalia,  as  well  as 
Melpomene,  was  to  have  a  hand  in  the  rearing  of  the  syn 
thetic  child.  He  was  still  laughing,  when  he  resumed. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "perhaps  he  will  synthesize  religions 
and  ethics  as  well  as  politics.  He  may  reconcile  the  Real 
Presence  with  the  theory  of  Commemorative  Communion. 


64  THE  HYPHEN 

He  may  jumble  together  Salvation  by  Grace  and  Good 
Deeds.  He  may  perceive  a  dual  nature  in  God  and  declare 
that  Jesus  and  Beelzebub  are  merely  Christian  cognomens 
for  Ahriman  and  Ormuzd.  He  may  see  in  Theosophy  a 
Christianizing  and  vindication  of  the  Egyptian  belief  in 
transmigration.  He  laughed  again,  grimly.  "A  synthetized 
religion !  The  outcome  might  be  cannibalism  linked  to  pro 
hibition." 

"You  seem  amused,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  a  little  curtly. 

"Amused!  Aber  Hebe,  Frau  Hauser!  I  am  entertained. 
More  entertained  than  I  have  been  in  years.  And  I  am  very 
much  concerned.  It's  a  dangerous  experiment,  terribly  dan 
gerous,  if  you  intend  fulfilling  it  to  the  letter." 

"I'm  going  to  play  fair,"  said  Frau  Ursula.  "It  is  detest 
able  nonsense,  I  suppose.  Still,  she  was  his  mother.  And  I 
have  faith  in  the  boy's  nature.  I  do  not  agree  with  you  in 
thinking  the  experiment  dangerous." 

"Well,  I  don't  see — I  say  it  frankly — how  you  are  going 
to  bring  up  a  child  without  giving  some  direction  to  his 
mental  and  moral  bent,"  the  old  physician  said,  oracularly. 
"It  cannot  be  done.  Unless  you  bring  him  up  on  a  desert  is 
land.  Man  juxtaposed  to  man  evolves  a  social  scheme  and 
a  religion,  however  crude.  And  the  desert  island  has  its 
drawbacks,  too.  The  philosopher,  like  the  artist  requires 
a  medium.  To  give  the  experiment  a  fair  test,  the  issue 
should  be  fairly  presented  to  the  child.  Yes — "  the  old  man 
was  warming  to  the  theme,  "Yes,  that  will  be  the  only  way." 

"But  that  is  precisely  what  his  mother  did  not  wish,"  said 
Frau  Ursula,  crossly.  "He  is  to  know  nothing  about  the 
Political  Synthesis  and  his  Destiny  and  that  he  is  not  my 
child  before  he  is  twenty-one." 

"H'm,"  grunted  the  old  physician. 

"I  am  determined,  however,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  "to  teach 
him  the  difference  between  right  and  wrong  in  no  uncertain 
way.  As  to  right  conduct,  at  least,  there  can  be  no  differ 
ence  of  opinion." 

"The  conception  of  what  is  right  and  wrong  depends 
largely  on  geographical  location,"  said  the  Doctor  slyly.  "So 
you  can't  do  that,  either,  if  there  is  really  to  be  no  bias.  In 
India,  they  marry  their  girls  off  at  eleven  and  twelve.  The 
Book  of  Mormon  makes  polygamy  obligatory,  and  the  advo 
cates  of  that  religion  submit  very  plausible  reasons  for  the 


CHILDHOOD  65 

practice — physiologically  plausible,  I  mean."  Frau  Ursula 
arched  her  eye-brows  and  averted  her  eyes.  Dr.  Koenig 
hemmed  and  hawed  a  moment,  realizing  that  he  had  slightly 
offended,  and  continued,  "And  the  Germans,  dear  lady,  men 
and  women  of  the  New  Empire  whose  veins  bound  the  self 
same  blood  as  yours  and  mine,  consider  war  an  ennobling 
pursuit,  a  sacred  occupation,  the  only  one  suitable  to  a  man 
of  birth." 

"Alas,  yes,"  Frau  Ursula  assented.  She  thought  of  the 
Rittergutsbesitzer  and  sighed.  "I  dare  say  you  are  right, 
Herr  Doktor.  I'm  in  a  worse  quandary  than  before.  I 
really  do  not  know  what  to  do.  I  shall  have  to  reconsider 
the  entire  problem.  I  don't  suppose,"  she  added,  abruptly, 
"that  Guido  has  inherited  his  mother's  homicidal  mania. 
Well,  at  any  rate,  he's  beyond  reach  of  her  influence.  I 
imagine  she  is  dead." 

"Not  necessarily,"  said  Dr.  Koenig,  "if  they  have  retaken 
her — as  they  doubtless  did,  ultimately — she  is  probably  still 
alive.  Russia  does  not  execute,  she  tortures,  and  exiles  and 
imprisons.  And  she  escaped  from  Siberia  before." 

Frau  Ursula  rose. 

"I  am  sure  she  is  dead,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  fmnality. 

"I  believe  you  wish  it?" 

"I  do  indeed,  with  all  my  heart,"  Frau  Ursula  replied, 
composedly. 

The  talk  with  Dr.  Koenig  had  consumed  considerable 
time,  and  Frau  Ursula,  on  consulting  her  watch,  was 
startled  to  see  that  the  better  part  of  the  morning  was  gone. 
And  she  had  not  yet  been  to  the  store.  Well,  she  would  have 
to  attend  to  that  in  the  afternoon. 

She  hurried  home. 

Guido  was  greatly  distressed  on  learning,  after  lunch, 
that  his  mother  was  going  out  again.  He  begged,  pleaded, 
cajoled,  used  all  the  innocent  wiles — even  flattery — of  child 
hood  to  prevent  her  departure.  As  a  last  desperate  en 
deavor  he  entreated  her  to  tell  him  a  tale  of  her  childhood. 

"Tell  me  about  the  big  white  Kachelofen  in  which  you 
baked  the  apples  and  potatoes  to  hold  in  your  muff  when 
you  went  sleigh-riding!" 

"You've  heard  all  about  that  at  least  a  dozen  times." 

"Tell  me  about  the  horrid  Finnish  governess  you  had, 
who  made  you  catch  spiders  for  her  sandwiches !" 


66  THE  HYPHEN 

"You  know  that  story  by  rote." 

"Tell  me,"  his  face  was  pitifully  white  and  drawn  after 
his  bad  night,  "Tell  me  about  your  great-grandparents,  who 
were  not  allowed  to  call  their  parents  "Du  I" 

"Guido,  those  old  storeis — " 

"Mother,  I  know,  I  know !  I'm  only  begging  you  to  tell 
me  a  story  to  keep  you  here,  near  me.  I  don't  care  a  rap 
about  the  story.  ,  I  don't  care  a  rap  whether  you  talk  to  me 
or  not.  Only,  stay  home — " 

Guido,  darling,  I  cannot.  Don't  you  think,  dearest,  I 
would  rather  stay  home  with  my  little  lad  than  rummage 
through  a  restaurant  kitchen?" 

"Can  I  get  up  at  least?" 

"Darling  son,  no.  After  yesterday — your  back  is  very 
tired,  you  told  me." 

"I  know.  Mother,  I  think  it  must  have  been  horrid  to 
call  your  parents — at  least  your  mother — 'Sie.'  I  couldn't 
call  you  'Sie'  I'd  just  have  to  call  you  'Du'  Mother,  that's 
one  thing  I  do  not  like  about  English,  calling  everybody — 
strangers  and  one's  mother — 'you/  ': 

"The  Quakers  use  'thee'  in  addressing  each  other." 

"Yes,  but  they  say  'thee'  to  everybody.  So  it  comes  to 
the  same  thing.  I  don't  like  that  about  English." 

"If  you  knew  English  only  you  would  never  think  about 
it.  Lots  of  mothers  and  little  children  say  'you'  to  each 
other  and  love  each  other  as  much  as  can  be.  And  now — " 
she  disengaged  herself  casually  from  the  boy's  convulsive 
clasp,  for  he  had  encircled  her  neck  with  his  thin  arms,  and 
was  lying  against  her  heart,  "now,  my  pet,  I  must  go." 

The  child  fell  back  limply  among  the  pillows. 

"The  English-speaking  mothers  may  love  their  little  boys 
as  much  as  can  be,  as  much  as  you  love,"  he  said  truc 
ulently,  "but  I  am  convinced  that  no  little  English-speaking 
boy  loves  his  mother  quite  as  much  as  I  love  you." 

He  said  it  without  anger,  without  heat,  without  bitterness. 
He  had  not  meant  to  be  unkind  or  to  hurt.  The  very  uncon 
sciousness  of  the  comparison  indicating  the  measure  of  her 
love  for  him  and  his  love  for  her  was  what  made  his  state 
ment  so  damning.  The  woman  gave  a  sharp  gasp  of  pain. 
Two  bright  red  spots  appeared  on  either  cheek.  Almost 
she  yielded  now,  but  her  sense  of  duty — and  fear  of  further 
irritating  her  husband — stiffened  her  purpose  and  her  will. 


CHILDHOOD  67 

Mechanically  she  began  to  gather  up  the  books  which  lay 
scattered  about  the  bed. 

"Mother,  can't  I  keep  the  books?" 

"You've  read  all  morning." 

"Just  one — as  company — I'll  be  so  lonely  without  anyone, 
without  even  a  book." 

"Which?"  she  asked  quietly. 

He  wavered. 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  not  keep  any,"  he  said,  with  down 
right  honesty.  "I  might  forget — and  read." 

"I  think,"  she  said  gently,  that  you  are  going  to  take  a 
Nachmittagsschlacfchen.  You  will  feel  so  much  better 
after  a  nap.  Then,  when  Otto  comes,  you  will  be  bright  and 
fresh.  And  perhaps  you  can  sit  up  a  little  after  I  get  home." 

"All  right,  Mother.  I'll  try  to  sleep.  I  will,  honest.  But, 
in  case  I  wake  before  half  past  three — just  one  book?" 

"Which—?" 

His  answer  startled  her  as  his  answer  had  a  habit  of 
doing. 

"The  dictionary,  Mother." 

"The  dictionary!     Do  you  want  to  read  that?" 

"Just  dip  into  it,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"You  may  read  the  dictionary  all  night  and  all  day. 
Nothing  in  that  to  excite  you." 

Rich  in  wisdom  and  in  love  as  she  was,  she  did  not  real 
ize  that  she  was  leaving  the  child  the  most  inebriating  book 
of  all. 

"Did  you  want  the  German  or  the  English  dictionary, 
Guido  ?"  she  asked,  standing  at  the  opening  book-case. 

"The  English,  of  course." 

She  fetched  it  for  him,  asking,  curiously, 

"Why— of  course?" 

"What  sense  would  there  be  in  reading  the  German  Dik- 
tionaer,"  the  child  replied  sharply.  "I  know  the  meaning 
of  pretty  nearly  every  German  word  I  hear  or  read.  When 
I  don't  know  what  it  means  it's  a  French  word — not  a  Ger 
man  word  at  all — or  a  technical  word." 

"1  see,"  said  his  mother,  meekly.  "I  am  glad  that  you 
wish  to  enlarge  your  English  vocabulary,  Guido.  I  was 
really  afraid,  before,  from  what  you  said,  that  you  had  taken 
a  dislike  to  English,  and  that  would  never  do.  For  although 
we  speak  German  among  ourselves,  because  it  comes  more 


68  THE  HYPHEN 

easily  to  us,  you  must  always  remember  that  English  is  the 
language  of  our  own  country.  More  than  that.  It  is  a 
rarely  beautiful  and  rich  language.  It  boasts  of  the  greatest 
modern  literature  in  the  world.  It  has  the  most  comprehen 
sive  vocabulary  of  any  language,  ancient  or  modern.  If  I 
could  do  as  I  pleased,  I  would  have  an  English  governess 
for  you — then  you  would  acquire  a  pure  English  as  well  as 
a  pure  German." 

The  child  had  listened  in  apparent  amazement. 

"You  misunderstood  me,  Mother,"  he  said.  "There's  just 
the  one  single,  solitary  thing  I  do  not  like  about  the  Eng 
lish,  and  nothing  that  you  or  anyone  else  can  say  can  change 
that."  The  small  thin  face  had  become  terribly  set  and  de 
termined.  He  had,  it  was  easy  to  see,  quite  irrevocably 
made  up  his  mind,  and  perhaps,  in  spite  of  her  voluble  ad 
monishment,  since  German  was  her  native  tongue  and  the 
only  language  which  she  spoke  with  perfect  fluency,  it 
pleased  her  that  this  was  so. 

Guido  continued: 

"But  English !  Why  I  love  it,  I  adore  it !  I  can't  exactly 
explain  how  I  feel  off-hand.  It's  like  this.  English  is  Sun 
day  clothes  and  patent  leather  pumps;  German  is  comfort 
able  corduroy  and  sneakers." 

She  was  taken  aback  by  the  unusual  metaphor.  Under 
cover  of  it,  for  Guido  was  still  pondering  the  subject,  she 
made  her  escape. 

He  did  not  take  the  cat-nap  which  his  mother  had  rec 
ommended,  although  he  tried  very  hard.  But  the  urgent 
business  which  he  had  in  hand  kept  him  awake. 

His  mother's  words  had  raised  a  very  serious  question  in 
his  mind. 

Which  was  dearer  to  him,  German  or  English? 

Which? 

There  was,  first  of  all,  German.  Until  he  was  five  years 
old  he  had  spoken  no  English  whatever,  excepting  the  one 
sentence,  taught  him  parrot  fashion,  "George  Washington 
was  the  Father  of  his  Country."  And  because  German  was 
the  first  language  which  he  had  spoken,  it  came  naturally 
both  to  tongue  and  ear.  His  German  compositions  were  al 
ways  virtually  letter-perfect,  frequently  showing  no  ves 
tige  of  the  blasting  red  ink  in  which  corrections  were  made. 
And  they  were  written  without  effort,  without  any  straining 


CHILDHOOD  69 

after  effect.  His  English  compositions,  on  the  other  hand, 
though  he  labored  over  them  valiantly,  were  honeycombed 
and  burrowed  by  the  blighting  crimson.  And  always,  quite 
inevitably,  whether  in  speech  or  in  print,  English  seemed  a 
little  unnatural,  a  little  stilted.  Yet  it  held  at  the  same  time 
an  elusive,  tantalizing  charm  like  the  fragrance  from  a 
flower  hidden  behind  a  stone  wall. 

One  consolation  only  remained.  Otto  had  informed  him 
that  he,  Guido,  used  more  polysyllables  in  his  English  prose 
work  than  any  other  boy — or  girl — in  the  class.  Otto  knew, 
because  he  and  Eddie  Erdman  during  recess  had  one  day 
taken  the  pains  to  read  through  the  compositions  of  the 
handful  of  pupils  who  counted,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  not 
ing  elephantine  words,  and  had  unanimously,  although 
grudgingly,  awarded  Guido  the  palm.  As  there  was  in  the 
class  a  boy  by  the  name  of  Bob  Hastings,  who  was  a  "real" 
American,  not  a  spurious  American,  like  themselves,  Guido 
felt  that  his  pride  in  wielding  the  Polysyllabic  Sceptre  of  his 
class  was  thrice  justified.  , 

For  he  would  dearly  have  loved  to  excel  in  the  use  of 
English,  but  the  truth  is,  he  was  a  little  afraid  of  it — it 
abounded  in  such  an  overwhelming  number  of  words  which 
no  one  ever  seemed  to  use.  How,  then,  did  these  words 
maintain  their  places  in  the  Dictionary?  Or  were  there  in 
England,  perhaps,  or  in  Boston,  which  was  literary,  or  in 
Philadelphia,  which  was  old,  men  and  women  who  spoke 
really  and  truly  dictionary  English?  He  didn't  believe  it. 
Neither  did  Otto.  And  both  were  at  loss  to  explain  the 
legion  of  splendid  idlers  with  which  the  Dictionary  was  ten 
anted. 

On  the  whole,  Guido  was  unfeignedly  glad  that,  instead 
of  being  dispossessed,  they  were  still  comfortably  housed. 
Like  human  idlers,  they  were  so  attractive  and  so  fascinat 
ing  that  merely  to  look  occasionally  at  these  Beau  Brummels 
of  the  world  of  print,  was  an  undeniable  privilege  and 
pleasure. 

So  that,  in  asking  for  the  dictionary,  he  had  been  im 
pelled  not  so  much  by  a  desire  to  benefit  his  mind,  as  by  a 
wish  for  facile  entertainment. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  is  this  youngster  of  eleven  was 
in  love  with  words.  He  loved  them  not  so  much  for  the 
delicate  shades  of  meaning  achievable  by  their  means,  as  for 


70  THE  HYPHEN 

their  sound,  and  for  their  appearance — their  appearance,  in 
fact,  even  more  than  their  sound,  for  in  his  silent  pronun 
ciation  at  this  early  stage  of  his  career  he  was  often  utterly 
at  sea. 

Words  there  were  which  steeped  his  linguistic  sense  in 
such  delight  that  he  would  repeat  them  over  and  over  to 
himself,  deriving  as  much  pleasure  from  the  exercise  as  he 
would  have  derived  from  stroking  a  pet  dog  or  cat.  Some 
old  English  names,  likes  Tewksbury,  Marlborough,  Claren 
don,  made  his  heart  burn  and  his  temples  throb  in  much  the 
same  way  as  did  the  sonorous  roar  of  the  organ  on  the  few 
occasions  when  he  had  been  taken  to  church.  Gloucester 
looked  beautiful;  it  was  a  disillusionment  to  learn,  as  he  did 
from  the  German  spelling  of  the  word  in  Schiller's  "Mary 
Stuart"  that  it  was  pronounced  plain  "Gloster."  And  there 
was  one  English  word  which  set  him  frantic  with  delight 
whenever  he  pronounced  it  to  himself,  which,  indeed,  had 
the  identical  effect  upon  him  that  one  of  Schumann's  Lieder 
had  when  his  mother  played  them  for  him.  The  word  was 
"Canterbury."  And  as  long  as  he  lived,  long  after  child 
hood  and  youth  were  passed,  long  after  English  had  be 
come  the  every-day  habit  and  German  unfamiliar  from  dis 
use,  that  word,  especially  when  associated  with  "pilgrims," 
or  "cathedral,"  or  "bells,"  never  failed  to  intone  in  his  soul 
one  of  those  silent  anthems  from  which  the  pure-minded 
derive  such  a  mystic,  religious  exaltation. 

Humbler  denizens  of  the  world  of  words  filled  him  with 
a  pleasure  almost  as  keen.  There  was  "poignant"  for  in 
stance,  which  was  exactly  what  it  seemed  to  be ;  and  "phan 
tom"  so  delightfully  thrilling  and  elusive;  and  "marjoram," 
which  was  so  gentle  and  delicately  aromatic  that  the  rose 
should  have  been  renamed  by  it.  For  hours  he  could  amuse 
himself  with  words  which  pleased  him,  letting  his  tongue 
play  with  them,  his  eye  caress  them. 

German  words  also  there  were,  which  he  loved,  but,  being 
more  familiar  with  them,  they  failed  to  exert  the  same 
glamour  and  fascination.  Yet  his  familiarity  did  not  blind 
him  into  their  relative  merit.  Thus,  he  thought  "Floete"  a 
much  finer  word  than  "flute" ;  "Harfe"  seemed  more  evan- 
escently  suggestive  than  "harp" ;  "Herzog"  was  more  mag 
nificent,  more  feudal  and  princely  than  "duke." 

He  had  heard  someone  speak  of  the  universal  tongues  of 


CHILDHOOD  71 

Esperanto  and  Volapiik.  He  thought  it  would  be  a  fine 
thing  to  extract  from  each  language  the  most  appropriate 
words,  and  with  this  building  material  to  construct  an  ideal 
tongue  for  all  mankind.  He  desired  to  be  the  Luther  Bur- 
bank  of  languages. 

Suddenly  a  passion  for  authorship  seized  him.  He 
scribbled  busily  for  a  while,  writing  intently,  correcting,  re 
writing,  a  juvenile  Balzac  in  his  frenzied  effort  for  style. 
The  room  was  very  quiet.  Presently  he  became  drowsy. 
He  flung  pencil  and  paper  away,  and  fixed  his  attention  on 
the  dream-language  that  was  to  be,  to  which,  temporarily, 
he  had  given  the  name  of  "Perfecto."  Then,  with  gentle 
suddenness,  he  fell  asleep. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  ringing  of  the  door-bell — once, 
twice,  thrice! 

Old  Kaetchen's  creaking  step,  accompanied  by  a  gentle 
grumbling  rumble  which  was  chronic  with  her  when  sum 
moned  from  the  kitchen,  was  heard  in  the  hall.  There  was 
the  sound  of  a  door  swinging  open,  and  immediately  the 
apartment  was  filled  with  wild  tumult.  A  tempest  seemed 
to  roll  along  the  hall,  scattering  stone  and  iron  on  its  way. 
There  were  tremendous  sounds,  stupendous  reverberations. 
Then  the  door  to  Guide's  bedroom  was  flung  open  and 
Otto,  Otto  who  was  responsible  for  all  this  noise,  pounded 
into  the  room,  wildly  swinging  strapped  books  and  pencil- 
case,  which  thwacked  where  they  listed,  a  habit  which  to 
gether  with  the  thumping  bumps  with  which  he  lumbered 
along,  accounted  for  the  furore  which  had  heralded  his 
appearance. 

"Hullo,"  he  cried  bluffly.  Among  themselves  the  boys 
spoke  English.  The  door  banged  shut. 

Guido,  freshly  awakened,  his  nerves  horribly  rasped, 
said: 

"How  do  you  do,  Otto.  I  wonder  how  you  manage  to 
make  so  much  noise."  Then,  enviously,  "I  couldn't  do  it  in 
a  hundred  years."  Noise  seemed  to  him  a  concomitant  of 
health,  seemed  to  stand  for  so  many  of  the  things  he  hadn't 
had,  and  which,  occasionally,  he  wished  he  had  not  missed. 

"  Of  course  you  couldn't,  you  poor  kid,"  said  Otto.  "How 
d'ye  feel  to-day?" 

He  himself  was  the  picture  of  health,  a  shock-headed, 


72  THE  HYPHEN 

rosy-cheeked,  blue-eyed  and  fair-haired  rough-and-tumble 
boy. 

"I'm  fine,"  said  Guido,  shortly. 

"That's  good,"  said  Otto,  indifferently.  "Wish  you'd  been 
in  school  to-day.  We  had  a  grand  time.  In  the  history  class 
we  had  all  about  Sedan." 

"Sedan— what's  that?" 

"Huh — much  you  know,  don't  you?"  Otto  taunted  his 
friend. 

"Well,  I  bet  you  didn't  know  before  to-day,  either,"  re 
torted  Guido. 

"I  didn't  ?  Didn't  I,  though.  My  father's  a  good  patriot. 
We've  got  Bismarck's  picture  right  alongside  of  Lincoln's 
in  the  dining-room.  I'm  named  for  Bismarck.  So  there." 

A  dull  anger  stirred  in  Guido.  Otto,  usually  the  most 
good-humored  of  companions,  became  insufferably  over 
bearing  whenever  he  began  to  talk  Bismarck,  which  he  did 
quite  frequently.  Otto's  father,  Herr  Baumgarten,  was  one 
of  those  Germans  who  are  Bismarck-fanatics,  and  through 
him  his  little  son  had  acquired  a  goodly  lot  of  information, 
all  of  it  flattering,  of  course,  about  the  German  Machiavelli. 

"My,  ain't  you  dumb,"  said  Otto,  using  a  solecism  greatly 
in  vogue  in  Anasquoit  where  it  was  the  fashion  to  use  the 
word  "dumb"  not  in  its  true  significance  but  as  an  equiv 
alent  of  the  German  "dumm,"  meaning  stupid. 

"Well,  anyhow,  I'm  not  so  silly  as  to  say  'dumb'  when  I 
mean  stupid,"  Guido  retorted,  hotly. 

"Oh,  you  with  your  fine  English,"  Otto  jeered,  thinking 
that  such  affectation  needed  taking  down.  "Say,  haven't 
you  been  told  anything  a-tall  about  Bismarck?"  And  he 
plunged  into  an  explanation  of  a  sort  concerning  Bis 
marck's  place  in  history.  It  was  not  very  coherent,  and  it 
bristled  with  eulogies  of  military  glory. 

"Bismarck  doesn't  interest  me  in  the  least,"  Guido  spoke 
up  suddenly. 

"But  it's  your  lesson  for  to-morrow,"  said  Otto,  grinning. 

"I  don't  care.  I  hate  hearing  about  war.  They  do  an  aw 
ful  lot  of  fighting  in  Europe." 

"Well,  don't  we?"  Otto  flung  back.  "We  had  the  Revo 
lution,  and  the  Civil  War,  didn't  we?  And  the  War  with 
Spain." 


CHILDHOOD  73 

"Well,  when  we  fight,  we  always  have  some  bully  good 
reason  for  it,"  Guido  retorted,  with  rising  bellicoseness. 

"So  do  they — at  least  the  Germans  have." 

"I'm  not  sure.  I  don't  like  Germany — much.  Seems  to 
me  Germany  alone  has  got  enough  kings  and  dukes  and 
things  to  stock  a  menagerie  with.  Why  don't  they  get  rid  of 
all  that  junk  and  start  right  the  way  we  did?" 

Otto  appeared  crestfallen. 

"Well,  to  say  the  truth,  I  haven't  got  much  use  for  em 
perors  and  kings  myself,"  he  admitted.  "But  my  farder, 
and  the  Herr  Direktor  to-day,  they  don't  seem  to  think  of 
that  a-tall.  And  my  farder  says  Bismarck  was  the  greatest 
statesman  that  ever  lived." 

"Huh!"  said  Guido,  sitting  bolt  upright  in  bed,  and 
waving  his  hands  dramatically.  "How  about  Washington? 
How  about  Lincoln?  Huh!" 

"My  farder  says,"  Otto  responded,  "that  Lincoln  was  the 
greatest  man  that  ever  lived." 

But  Guido  was  not  entirely  appeased. 

"And  Washington?"  he  asked,  suspiciously. 

"My  farder  says  Washington  was  the  finest  man  that  ever 
lived." 

Guido  pondered  these  delicate  distinctions  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  demanded  with  that  alert,  searching  eagerness  for 
uncomprehended  things  which  was  one  of  the  basic  traits 
of  his  character : 

"Otto,  do  you  understand  just  what  your  father  meant  by 
all  that?" 

"I  never  thought  about  it,"  honest  Otto  replied.  He  was 
quite  ready,  evidently,  to  accept  his  father's  opinions  ready- 
made,  and  to  infuse  them  bodily,  without  question  or  parley, 
into  the  fabric  of  his  own  mind. 

"Well,  you'd  better  think  about  it,  once,"  said  Guido, 
blissfully  unaware  that  he  was  guilty  of  a  barbarism  which 
was  close  kith  and  kin  to  the  one  with  which  he  had  taunted 
his  friend  a  moment  before. 

"My  farder  says,"  Otto  launched  forth  again,  "that  the 
Germans  are  the  greatest  race  on  earth." 

"That's  silly/;  said  Guido. 

"The  Herr  Direktor  said  so,  too." 

"It's  silly  all  the  same." 

"Oooooh !"  Otto  pretended  to  be  scandalized. 


74  THE  HYPHEN 

"My  mother  says  all  races — all  white  races — are  pretty 
nearly  equally  good,"  Guido  triumphantly  delivered  himself. 

"Women  don't  know  as  much  as  men,"  remarked  the  irre 
pressible  Otto.  At  this  Guido  flew  into  a  Berserker  rage. 

"That  may  be  so  in  your  home,"  he  cried,  "but  not  in 
ours.  My  mother  knows  as  much  as  any  man." 

Poor  Otto  became  frightened.  His  own  mother  never 
tired  of  enjoining  him  not  to  quarrel  with  Guido,  not  to  hit 
him,  not  to  irritate  him,  not  to  tease  him.  He  had  lurid 
visions  of  Guido  lying  stark  and  still  in  his  coffin  as  the  up 
shot  of  their  wrangle.  Chills  of  apprehension  traversed  his 
boyish  spine. 

"Don't  get  so  mad,  Guido,"  he  said,  soothingly.  "I'm  not 
so  dumb  as  not  to  know  that  your  mother's  a  wonder.  Sure 
thing.  She  does  know  as  much  as  most  men.  My  father 
says  she's  an  emancipated  woman." 

"Emancipated !"  Here  was  a  poser.  Guido  liked  the  tang 
of  the  word.  But  he  had  not  the  remotest  conception  of 
its  meaning,  though,  since  its  flavor  was  so  agreeable  both 
to  the  ear  and  to  the  tongue,  it  was  inconceivable  that  it  con 
veyed  either  censure  or  contempt.  Nevertheless,  his  morti 
fication  was  great.  Here  was  Otto,  who  habitually  and  de 
liberately  offended  by  using  such  monstrosities  as  "dumb" 
and  "gummi-shoes"  and  "going  on  a  party"  and  a  lot  of 
other  amorphous  expressions  unclassifiable  as  German  or 
English  or  Perfecto,  springing  a  long  word  on  him,  Guido, 
which  Guido  had  never  heard  of  before. 

Guido  felt  aggrieved,  shocked  and  outraged.  In  his 
mind's  eye  he  saw  his  throne  as  Polysyllabic  King  tottering, 
and  to  fall  from  that  proud  eminence  would  be  calamity  of 
the  first  magnitude.  He  was  aware  of  a  sudden  feeling  of 
good-fellowship,  of  neighborliness,  of  comprehending  com 
passion  for  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe.  Humanly,  if  not 
politically,  there  was  some  excuse  for  not  chopping  off  all 
their  heads  at  one  fell  blow,  as  he  had  suggested  a  few  mo 
ments  ago.  He  felt  that  his  new  self-knowledge,  involving 
his  abysmal  ignorance,  had  had  a  chastening  effect  on  his 
ethics,  a  broadening  effect  upon  his  character.  He  rejoiced 
in  this  and  felt  virtuous. 

By  no  means  must  he  let  Otto  perceive  how  matters  really 
stood,  and  he  wrapped  himself  in  an  air  of  lofty  frigidity. 
Such  dissemblers  are  the  best  of  us. 


CHILDHOOD  75 

"Otto,"  he  said,  impressively,  "my  mother  is  a  very  ex 
traordinary  woman."  He  gave  each  syllable  of  "extraor 
dinary"  its  full  value,  as  if  it  had  been  a  hyphenated  word. 

"Sure  thing,"  said  Otto.  "My  mother  says  your  mother 
was  a  princess  or  something  on  the  other  side.  Was  she?" 

"Of  course  not,"  Guido  retorted,  indignantly.  His  an 
cient  prejudice  against  royalty  had  revived.  It  was  scanda 
lous  of  Otto  to  suggest  such  a  taint  in  his  blood. 

Huh!"  said  Otto.  "If  she  wasn't  a  princess,  she  was  a 
countess  or  a  baroness,  and  that's  almost  as  fine." 

"•Fine!"  Guido  echoed,  weakly. 

"Sure,"  said  Otto.  "Why  did  your  mother  ever  come 
here,  anyhow,  Guido?" 

"I  suppose  because  she  loved  this  country,"  Guido  replied. 
But  he  spoke  without  conviction.  He  was  not  sure — never 
having  been  told  why  his  mother  had  come  to  America. 

"Huh !"  Otto  retorted,  "you're  just  making  that  up.  No 
body  comes  to  America  because  they  love  this  country.  If 
they're  poor  in  Germany  they  come  because  they  think  they 
are  going  to  get  rich  here.  Silly  simps!  And  if  they  are 
rich  in  Germany  they  don't  come  here  unless  they  lose  their 
money,  or  because  they've  killed  someone  or  robbed  some 
one  and  have  to  clear  out." 

"Well,  I'm  quite  sure  that  my  mother  didn't  kill  anyone  or 
rob  anyone,"  Guido  retorted,  with  scathing  disdain. 

"No,  of  course  not,"  Otto  cheerfully  assented.  "She 
might  have  if  she'd  been  a  man,  but  German  ladies  don't  do 
such  things.  My  farder  says  American  ladies  have  too 
much 'liberty,  and  that  makes  them  do  such  foolish  things. 
My  farder  says  Americans  make  believe  that  they  are 
better  than  other  people,  but  they're  not.  My  farder  says 
it's  a  good  thing  so  many  Germans  come  to  this  country, 
otherwise  it  would  come  on  the  dog."  The  last  phrase,  need 
less  to  point  out,  was  yet  another  specimen  from  Otto's 
Jekyll  and  Hyde  collection  of  words  and  phrases.  "My 
farder  says "  and  he  droned  on  interminably.  Accord 
ing  to  Otto's  father,  if  his  scion  was  to  be  believed,  Ameri 
cans  and  Englishmen  were  the  possessors  of  all  the  black 
guardly  qualities  in  the  calendar,  while  all  noble,  sterling 
qualities  of  heart  and  mind  were  the  property  of  the  Ger 
man  race. 

A  dull  irritation  stirred  in  Guido.    Something  of  the  sort 


76  THE  HYPHEN 

he  had  heard  his  own  father  expound,  but  only  sporadically, 
when  things  went  wrong  in  business.  As  a  rule  it  was 
"America  is  good  enough  for  me"  with  Hauser.  And  why 
not?  Since  America  had  been  so  overwhelmingly  good  to 
him  at  least  in  a  financial  way.  But  Otto  and  Otto's  father 
continually  harped  on  the  same  string.  There  was  linked  to 
the  irritation  against  Otto  another  emotion  which  Guido 
could  not  name  because  it  was  new  to  him.  He  had  never 
experienced  it  before.  It  warmed  his  heart  and  his  blood 
and,  unfortunately,  his  brain.  He  felt  very  very  angry,  but 
his  anger  seemed  merely  to  overlap  and  enfold  the  other, 
deeper,  more  subtle  emotion.  It  was  elemental,  went  down 
to  the  roots  of  his  being,  was  part  of  himself,  was  perhaps 
himself.  He  could  not  tell.  And  he  was  far  too  angry  and 
too  deeply  moved  to  waste  time  or  energy  in  self -analysis. 
His  introspective  powers  were  for  the  moment  paralyzed. 

And  all  this  pent-up  magnificence  could  find  to  say  was : 

"It's  rotten  to  talk  like  that." 

"It's  my  farder  that  talks  like  that !"  Otto's  round,  boyish 
face  turned  a  deep  brick-red.  His  blue  eyes  shone  like  blue 
bells  from  that  surrounding  redness. 

"Can't  help  it,  it's  rotten  all  the  same." 

Guido  repeated  the  offensive  words,  knowing  as  certainly 
as  any  potentate  who  signs  a  provocative  ultimatum,  that  it 
meant  war — war  with  Otto.  He  had  forgotten  all  about 
his  professed  dislike  for  that  ancient  avocation  of  mankind. 
He  was  willing  to  fight  not  merely  his  beloved  Otto,  but  ten 
boys,  a  hundred  boys,  a  thousand  boys  if  they  would  dare 
to  repeat  in  his  hearing  the  sentiments  he  had  so  uneuphem- 
istically  pronounced  "rotten." 

His  youthful  pacifism  had  gone  to  pieces  upon  the  rock 
of  principle. 

But  of  the  deeper  significance  of  what  was  transpiring  in 
his  soul  he,  of  course,  glimpsed  nothing. 

As  the  proscribed  words  were  repeated,  Otto  scrambled 
to  his  feet.  To  him  it  was  a  personal  quarrel — tribal,  pos 
sibly,  since  his  father's  words  had  been  stigmatized  as  "rot 
ten."  Of  the  deeper  significance  of  the  quarrel,  he,  too, 
opined  nought. 

He  ran  his  brown  fingers  through  his  fair  hair,  as  he  had 
a  habit  of  doing  before  resorting  to  the  use  of  his  compe- 


CHILDHOOD  77 

tent  fists.  His  fighting  blood  was  up.  He  had  forgotten  his 
mother's  admonishments  and  Guido's  weak  back. 

Guido,  bristling,  regarded  his  belligerent  over  the  foot 
board  of  the  bed. 

"I'm  too  weak  to  get  out  of  bed  alone,"  he  said,  "but  if 
you'll  just  step  around  here,  where  I  can  reach  you,  I'll  fight 
you  in  bed." 

The  superb  absurdity  of  it!  The  Spirit  of  '76  did  not 
throw  down  the  gauntlet  more  blithely. 

Slowly,  but  not  unwillingly,  Otto  came  around  to  the  side 
of  the  bed.  He  had  fully  mobilized.  His  head  was 
lowered,  as  for  a  charge,  his  fists  were  clenched  and  vil 
lainous-looking.  Guido  faced  him,  also  with  clenched  fists. 
The  flush  which  tinged  his  face  had  not  communicated  it 
self  to  his  hands.  They  were,  as  always,  the  color  of  wax, 
and  seemed  as  frail  and  as  brittle  as  that  commodity,  and 
the  knuckles  showed  an  unhealthy  blue-white.  At  sight  of 
those  pitifully  fragile  hands,  all  of  Otto's  wrath  was  extin 
guished.  He  was,  in  spite  of  his  silly  braggadocio  a  genu 
inely  kind-hearted  lad,  and  he  loved  Guido  with  a  sincerity 
and  a  devotion  which  never  wavered.  He  unclenched  his 
fists,  and,  throwing  back  his  head,  laughed  heartily. 

"You  silly  boob,"  he  said,  "you  poor  simp,  did  you  really 
think  I'd  fight  you !  Why,  if  I  struck  you  I'd  break  you  to 
pieces,  to  little  tiny  bits." 

Tears  of  humiliation  stood  in  Guido's  eyes. 

"You  shan't  make  fun  of  me  because  I'm  sick,"  he  cried, 
"you  shall  fight  me,  you  shall!" 

"Aw,  forget  it,"  said  Otto,  composedly.  "I  wasn't  laugh 
ing  at  you.  Honest  Injun.  But  just  imagine  what  'ud  hap 
pen  if  my  big  paw  landed  on  your  little  lady-like  hands." 

This  though  kindly  meant,  did  not  assuage  the  wound  it 
was  intended  to  heal.  It  had,  in  fact,  a  contrary  effect. 
Guido  uttered  a  sound,  which,  since  he  had  spent  two  entire 
years  in  bed,  far  from  the  madding  world  of  fights  and 
brawls,  was  really  a  very  fair  imitation  of  the  Indian  yell 
with  which  school  boys  give  battle. 

"Oh,  shut  your  face,  will  you  ?"  Otto  exclaimed.  He  was 
becoming  alarmed  by  the  storm  he  had  raised  but  could  not 
quell. 

Then  something  happened  which  amazed  Guido  as  much 
as  it  amazed  Otto — perhaps  more.  Guido's  alabaster-white 


78  THE  HYPHEN 

hand  shot  out,  and  aiming  true  crashed  resonantly  upon 
Otto's  nose,  causing  a  profuse  inundation. 

"Well,  I  never !"  Otto  ejaculated,  spitting  the  blood  out  of 
his  mouth  and  fumbling  for  his  handkerchief.  He  was  over 
whelmed  with  amazement.  It  never  occurred  to  him  to 
strike  back.  Now  that  he  again  envisaged  the  invalidism  of 
his  friend,  he  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  striking  back 
at  his  baby  sister  if  she,  in  a  spurt  of  infant  fury,  had  at 
tempted  a  similar  outrage  and  had,  by  a  similar  miracle, 
drawn  blood. 

"Well,  I  never,"  he  blurted  out  again,  still  blowing  and 
puffing,  to  avoid  swallowing  the  blood  which  was  streaming 
from  his  nose.  He  had  found  his  handkerchief  at  last,  the 
typical  school-boy's  handkerchief,  much  smirched  by  too 
close  an  association  with  keys,  pencils,  sticky  candies  and 
general  griminess. 

"Well,  I  never,"  he  repeated  once  more,  when,  at  last,  his 
blood  was  staunched. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  the  blow  was  a  foul  blow, 
but  this  aspect  of  the  assault  had  presented  itself  with  light 
ning-like  rapidity  to  Guide's  quicker  intelligence. 

His  anger  had  given  way  to  shame,  his  indignation  to  a 
sense  of  burning  self-loathing.  He  had  struck  Otto,  Otto, 
so  kind,  so  true,  so  staunch;  Otto,  who  had  lowered  his 
hands  and  had  tried  to  make  up. 

"Otto,"  he  cried,  "I'm  a  beast.  Oh,  forgive  me.  Please, 
please  forgive  me." 

"Don't  be  a  goose,"  said  Otto,  unmindful  of  genders,  and 
flecking  away  the  last  driblets  of  blood  from  his  abused  nose 
and  jowl.  "It  didn't  hurt.  You  were  fearf'ly  quick.  A 
quick  blow  like  that  don't  hurt  no  more'n  a  quick  cut.  You 
oughter  know  that  much." 

"But  you  weren't  expecting  it,"  Guido  murmured,  still 
wallowing  in  shame. 

"That's  why  it  didn't  hurt,  I'm  telling  you,  you  duffer," 
Otto  rejoined.  "Stop  your  yowling,  won't  you  ?"  For  un 
ashamedly,  Guido  had  broken  into  sobs. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  sobbed  Guido,  "you're  always  so  go-go- 
go-good  to  me,  and  I'm  such  a  little  beast !" 

Stoically  Otto  sat  down  near  the  bed,  resolved  to  see  the 
affair  through,  since,  apparently,  there  was  nothing  else  to 
do. 


CHILDHOOD  79 

Guido,  still  sobbing,  and  determined  upon  the  amende 
honorable,  said: 

"Otto,  I  don't  know  what  'emancipated'  means." 

Self-abasement,  for  a  Polysyllabic  King,  could  go  no 
further. 

Otto,  regarding  his  friend  reflectively,  rejoined,  appar- 
enty  quite  unmoved  by  the  latter's  magnanimity: 

"Neither  do  I." 

Then,  through  some  secret,  unfathomable  channel  of  the 
soul  Guido's  self-respect  came  oozing  back.  But  his  sobbing 
continued.  He  was  almost  hysterical. 

"For  heaven'  sake,"  quoth  Otto  sternly,  "quit  that  yelping. 
Will  you  now?  I  tell  you  I  don't  care  a  hang  about  your 
making  my  nose  bleed.  But  if  you  are  going  to  howl  your 
self  sick,  like  a  sissy,  my  mudder'll  tell  my  farder,  and  he'll 
lick  me  within  an  inch  of  my  life.  Now,  will  you  stop  ?" 

Guido  stopped.  But,  although  he  was  now  entirely  over 
whelmed  by  Otto's  generosity,  he  could  not  help  saying,  a 
moment  later: 

"But  don't  you  go  running  Americans  down  again,  like 
you  did  before." 

"I  should  worry,"  rejoined  Otto.  "We  ain't  Americans. 
We're  Germans." 

"Yes,"  Guido  assented  in  good  faith.  "We're  Germans. 
But  America  is  our  country.  At  least  it's  mine.  So  there." 

That  evening  Guido  confided  to  his  mother  the  secret  of 
his  incipient  authorship.  He  produced  the  magic  document 
upon  which  he  had  labored  in  the  afternoon,  and  handed  it 
to  her. 

This  is  what  Frau  Ursula  read: — 

"An  antiquated  man  with  a  face  like  a  pilkin  lived  on  a 
pippin  farm  where  roans  also  were  grown  in  a  covert  near 
a  causeway  swung  from  a  halyard  across  a  weir  and  do 
mesticated  with  him " 

Frau  Ursula  gulped  convulsively  and  broke  into  a  spasm 
of  coughing. 

"Did  you  take  cold  yesterday,  Mother?"  Guido  inquired. 
Truth  to  tell  he  spoke  a  little  impatiently.  For  how  dared  a 
mere  cough  interrupt  his  mother's  enjoyment  of  her  son's 
first  independent  excursion  into  English  prose? 

Frau  Ursula  presented  a  serious  face  to  the  youngster 


8o  THE  HYPHEN 

when  she  spoke.  The  heroism  of  motherhood,  even  vicari 
ous  motherhood  such  as  hers,  knows  no  bounds. 

"Guido,"  she  said,  "I  do  not  doubt  it  is  very  beautiful. 
But  you  know,  my  son,  I  am  but  an  indifferent  English 
scholar,  and  my  vocabulary  is  entirely  inadequate  for  the 
comprehension  of  your  remarkable  diction.  My  pet,  will 
you  do  this  for  me  ?  To-morrow  write  me  out  a  definition — 
copied  from  the  dictionary,  of  each  of  the  words  which  I 
am  going  to  underline." 

Guido,  not  very  well  pleased  with  a  task  which  smacked 
of  being-kept-in-after-school  procedure,  consented  with 
poor  grace.  Years  elapsed  before  the  true  reason  of  his 
mother's  strange  request  became  clear  to  him.  His  com 
pliance  with  it,  however,  bore  immediate  fruit  as  she  had 
meant  it  should  do.  It  taught  him  not  to  use  words  the 
meaning  of  which  was  hazy  and  obscure. 


CHAPTER  HI 

FRAU  SCHUSTER  returned  the  next  day,  looking 
dingier  and  more  dilapidated  and  less  palatable  than 
ever.  By  no  stretch  of  the  imagination  could  one  fancy 
her  as  ever  having  been  a  light-hearted,  light-footed  young 
girl,  who  went  to  picnics  and  danced  at  weddings  and  de 
prived  daisies  ruthlessly  of  their  petals  to  see  whether  her 
love  was  errant  or  true.  None,  that  is,  excepting  a  warm 
hearted  child. 

For  Guido  loved  her.  When  she  told  him  wonderful 
stories  of  her  childhood  in  far-away  Germany,  stories 
almost  as  entrancing  as  those  which  his  mother  told  him 
of  her  young  days,  he  thought  of  her  in  terms  of  a  con 
temporary.  There  was,  of  course,  a  marked  difference 
between  the  tales  of  Frau  Schuster's  youth  and  his 
mother's  juvenile  recollections.  His  mother's  childhood  had 
been  spent  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  about  which  hovered 
nursery  governesses  and  maids,  and  coachmen  and  foot 
men  and  gardeners  galore.  Frau  Schuster,  on  the  other 
hand,  had  been  the  youngest  of  thirteen  children,  born  to 
a  poor  country  vicar.  On  the  children's  birthdays,  as  a 
great  treat,  they  had  chocolate  soup  for  supper,  and  on 
her  father's  birthday  the  merry  little  tribe  had  been  re 
galed  with  Karpfen  mit  Rosinen,  and  Weissbiersuppe,  and 
Zwetschgenkuchen,  delicacies  whose  charm,  as  Frau 
Schuster  willingly  admitted,  were  greatly  impaired  when 
translated  into  an  English-speaking  world  as  carp  with 
raisins,  beer  soup  and  plum  cake.  But  they  had  tasted 
excellently  well  in  Germany,  she  asseverated,  and  plum- 
cake,  as  Guido  knew  for  himself,  was  just  as  tasty  in 
America  as  in  Germany,  or  would  have  been,  if  American 
plums  had  been  as  good  as  German  plums.  At  this  point 
of  her  yarn,  overcome  by  the  pathos  of  her  reminiscences, 
the  poor  old  soul  would  sadly  shake  her  head.  There  was 
no  doubt,  she  would  say  with  the  utmost  gravity,  and  was 
as  sincere  in  this  as  in  all  things,  that  the  soil  about  the 

81 


82  THE  HYPHEN 

vicarage  of  the  Herr  Pastor  Blase winkel  in  Herrgottsau, 
Thueringen,  was  peculiarly  well  adapted  to  the  growing 
of  plums.  There  never  were  and  never  would  be  the 
world  over  plums  with  such  a  flavor. 

The  simple-hearted  old  woman  did  not  suspect  that  the 
especial  flavor  of  those  plums  was  due  to  the  simple,  hearty 
kindness  which  had  surrounded  her  childhood  and  the  life 
of  her  parents,  and  which  had  made  of  the  Blasewinkel 
vicarage,  in  spite  of  the  energetic  frugality  which  thirteen 
mouths  to  feed  made  imperative,  a  little  paradise. 

Nor  did  the  little  lad  to  whom  she  told  these  tales  of 
gastronomic  enjoyment  suspect  it.  He  would  lean  back 
in  his  pillows  with  a  sigh  of  vast  content,  and  vow  that 
when  he  was  a  man  and  had  lots  of  money  as  grown-ups 
always  had,  he  would  go  back  to  Germany  with  Frau 
Schuster  and  they  would  seek  out  the  vicarage  at  Herr 
gottsau,  and  if  necessary  buy  it,  and  then  they  would  eat 
Weissbiersuppe,  and  Karpfen  mit  Rosinen  and  Zwetchgen- 
kuchen  not  once  a  year  but  every  day  while  carp  were  in 
season  and  the  plum  preserves  on  the  long,  wide  shelves 
in  the  dark  cool  cellar  of  the  vicarage  lasted. 

Frau  Schuster  had  been  quite  ill  the  day  before,  she  said, 
and  upon  looking  at  her,  Frau  Ursula  hazarded  the  re 
mark  that  Frau  Schuster  was  understating  the  truth — she 
looked  so  very  ill.  And  Frau  Ursula  added  another  to 
her  already  innumerable  attempts  to  persuade  the  faded 
old  gentlewoman  to  enter  a  home.  Frau  Schuster  resisted, 
as  usual. 

"I  haven't  the  money,"  she  said,  finally. 

"I  have  told  you  half  a  dozen  times  that  the  money  will 
be  forthcoming,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  kindly. 

"I  have  never  accepted  charity  in  all  my  life,"  replied 
the  poor  old  woman,  sniffing  lugubriously.  Her  tone  be 
came  moist  and  flabby.  Tears  were  imminent. 

"You  should  not  regard  the  gift  of  a  sum  which  would 
enable  you  to  enter  a  home  as  charity,"  said  Frau  Ursula, 
soothingly.  "Your  life  has  been  a  useful  one.  You  have 
been  kind,  efficient,  unselfish.  Always  you  have  given  more 
than  you  have  received.  If  that  were  not  so  you  would 
have  enough  now  to  buy  yourself  into  a  home.  Society 
owes  virtuous  old  age,  when  that  old  age  is  childless,  the 


CHILDHOOD  83 

security  and  the  decency  of  a  comfortable  home.  Can 
you  not  bring  yourself  to  look  at  it  in  this  light?" 

"Ach,  nein,"  Frau  Schuster  replied,  "it  really  cannot  be, 
Frau  Kommerzienrat!" 

Frau  Shuster,  who  was  afflicted  with  the  Teuton's  in 
curable  love  for  titles,  had  bestowed  this  fortuitous  one 
upon  Frau  Ursula.  She  had  a  profound  conviction  that  fate 
would  have  bestowed  at  least  that  much  of  a  title  upon 
Mr.  Hauser,  if  he  had  elected  to  remain  at  home  in  Ger 
many.  In  what  country,  excepting  plebeian  America, 
would  this  badge  of  commercial  distinction  have  been 
churlishly  withheld  from  so  patrician  a  daughter  of  the 
human  race?  Frau  Schuster  regarded  all  things  American 
with  a  pitying  contempt.  Her  own  emigration  had  been 
the  result  of  her  marriage — the  marriage  had  been  en 
forced  by  her  father,  the  emigration  by  her  husband,  upon 
whom,  in  turn,  it  had  been  enforced  by  circumstances  of 
which  he  was  not  the  victim.  Women  were  the  toys  of 
men,  men  the  playthings  of  life,  and  America  the  self- 
inflicted  Siberia  of  misguided  or  erring  Germans.  Such 
was  Frau  Schuster's  philosophy. 

Frau  Ursula  perceived  the  futility  of  endeavoring  to 
change  a  viewpoint  so  ingrained,  but  she  decided  to  make 
an  effort  to  persuade  the  old  woman  to  come  and  live 
with  them.  She  was  not  given  to  procrastination.  But  she 
procrastinated  now  because  she  had  an  urgent  call  to  pay. 

Frau  Schuster's  chief  ailment  was  asthma.  Attendant 
upon  that  ill,  and  augmented  by  and  augmenting  it,  was 
arterioscleriosis,  the  disease  of  old  age.  The  doctor  had 
furthermore  discovered  that  she  was  rheumatic,  and  ac 
cordingly  she  was  equipped  with  an  entirely  new  outfit  of 
panaceas — medicated  cigarettes  for  the  asthma  and  lithia 
tablets  for  the  rheumatism. 

Guido  watched  with  the  utmost  interest  the  entertaining 
spectacle  of  a  staid  old  lady  of  seventy-eight  smoking,  or 
trying  to  smoke,  her  first  cigarette.  Truth  to  tell  she  did 
not  succeed  very  well,  nor  did  she  try  very  hard.  She 
seemed  to  have  a  feeling  that  the  proprieties  required  her 
to  fail,  lest  in  succeeding  doubt  be  cast  upon  her  erstwhile 
continence.  She  had  a  horror  of  being  suspected  of  secret 
vices.  It  was  the  poor  woman's  last  vanity. 


84  THE  HYPHEN 

So,  instead  of  placing  an  end  of  the  cigarette  in  her 
mouth,  as  an  orthodox  cigarette  required,  she  fussed  and 
blew  and  whistled  at  its  lighted  end,  as  if  it  could  be  made 
to  yield  its  virtue  in  such  wise,  like  a  punk. 

The  cigarette  was  a  failure.  Guido  thought  he  could 
do  better  himself,  and  offered  to  smoke  one  for  her.  But, 
after  due  cogitation,  she  decided  that  even  a  medicated 
cigarette  might  engender  the  habit  of  smoking  in  her  charge, 
and  Guide's  ambitions  came  to  nought. 

The  lithia  tablets,  on  the  other  hand,  were  a  source  of 
satisfaction  both  to  the  patient  and  to  the  observer. 
Dropped  into  a  tumbler  of  water,  the  tablets  spurted  joy 
ously  heavenward,  as  if  challenging  the  laws  of  gravita 
tion.  Each  tablet  was  a  tiny  witch's  cauldron,  upsetting 
Newton's  Law.  It  exhilarated  Guido  merely  to  watch  that 
tempestuously  bubbling  miniature  geyser.  He  enjoyed  the 
frothing  hubbub  so  much  that  he  hoped  Frau  Schuster 
would  require  a  tablet  every  hour.  But  hers  was  not  a 
desperate  case,  and  the  intervals  prescribed  were  three 
hours.  They  had  a  little  argument  about  it,  and  for  once 
she  did  not  yield  to  his  entreaties.  Guido,  for  the  world 
of  him,  could  not  rejoice  that  matters — as  far  at  least  as 
her  rheumatism  was  concerned — were  not  so  very  bad  with 
her  after  all.  He  was  avid  to  watch  another  tumbler  of 
water  in  chemical  commotion.  He  was  almost  sorry  that 
Frau  Schuster  was  not  more  ill  than  she  was. 

In  all  he  had  the  pleasure  of  watching  only  four  of  Frau 
Schuster's  tablets  gush  themselves  away  into  nothingness 
that  day,  and  it  was  written  in  the  book  of  fate  that  he 
was  to  see  no  more.  For  the  poor  creature  fell  ill  that 
very  night  after  reaching  home,  and  had  to  be  removed 
to  the  hospital.  A  week  later  Frau  Ursula  told  Guido  that 
his  old  companion-nurse  had  decided,  after  all,  to  go  to 
the  Home.  Several  weeks  elapsed  before  he  learned  the 
truth.  She  had  died  three  days  after  reaching  the  hos 
pital.  They  would  not  have  told  Guido  of  her  death  even 
then,  but  Frau  Schuster  had  enjoined  upon  the  hospital 
nurse  not  to  forget  to  see  that  little  Guido  Hauser  received 
a  small  box  made  of  rosewood  and  inlaid  with  mother-of- 
pearl,  which  she  had  treasured  very  highly.  It  was  locked, 
and  the  key  had  been  lost  and  it  was  necessary  to  call  in 
a  locksmith  to  open  it,  a  circumstance  which  vastly  stimu- 


CHILDHOOD  85 

lated  Guide's  imagination.  He  expected  to  find  in  it  at 
the  least  a  chart  revealing  where  hidden  treasure  had  been 
sunk — or  buried,  in  the  vicarage  garden  at  Herrgottsau. 

But  when  they  opened  the  box  there  was  in  it  nothing 
but  a  string  of  jade  beads,  very  beautifully  carved,  and  an 
exquisitely  embroidered  cambric  handkerchief,  yellow  with 
age,  in  which  something  was  wrapped. 

Guido  allowed  the  jade  beads  to  glide  through  his  ringers 
with  a  feeling  of  mingled  delight  and  regret. 

"The  Schlossherr,  Baron  Von  Arndt,  brought  it  to  her 
from  China,  when  she  was  eight  years  old.  He  brought 
one  for  her  and  for  Schulmeister's  Kaetchen  because  once 
a  week  they  spent  an  afternoon  at  the  Schloss  with  his 
youngest  daughter."  And  immediately  his  imagination  car 
ried  him  back  to  the  vicarage  at  Herrgottsau.  The  picture 
conjured  was  as  clean-cut  as  if  he  had  lived  there  himself. 

Frau  Ursula  did  not  allow  him  to  drift  too  far  away. 

"See,  Guido,  here  is  something  else,"  she  said,  handing 
him  the  saffron-odored  handkerchief. 

The  child  received  it,  and  carefully  unwrapped  it.  There 
appeared  a  bottle,  a  stout,  squat,  bull-necked  bottle,  of 
modern,  American  manufacture,  which  Guido  recognized  at 
a  glance.  It  contained  Frau  Schuster's  lithia  tablets. 

If  Frau  Ursula  perceived  anything  ludicrous  in  this 
legacy,  she  gave  no  sign,  and  any  secret  sense  of  the  ridicu 
lous  which  she  may  have  entertained  was  speedily  eclipsed 
by  the  look  of  horror  which  came  to  the  boy's  face. 

"Guido,  mein  Herz,  what  is  the  matter?  Shall  I  take 
it  away?" 

"By  no  means."  The  boy's  fingers  clasped  themselves 
feverishly  about  the  lithia  tablet  bottle,  suggesting  un- 
guessed  strength  in  the  feeble-appearing  fingers. 

Frau  Ursula  was  a  respecter  of  the  veils  and  draperies 
which  swathe  the  soul.  She  did  not  seek  to  pry  into  the 
matter  which  was  tormenting  her  boy.  She  knew  him  well 
enough  to  know  that  the  fever  of  excitement,  by  whatsoever 
caused,  must  run  its  course.  Very  quietly  she  rose  and 
left  him  alone. 

His  imagination  was  always  a  Pegasus ;  with  conscience 
as  the  jockey,  there  was  no  checking  it  midway  in  its 
wild  careening.  And  wildly  careen  it  did.  He  was  filled 
with  bitter  self-reproach,  and  self-reproach  was  followed 


86  THE  HYPHEN 

by  self-execration.  For  the  sake  of  a  momentary,  sensual 
pleasure  (he  had  no  conception,  of  course,  of  the  coarser 
meaning  of  sensual!)  he  had  wished  a  fellow-creature 
to  be  more  ill  than  she  was.  And  he  had  wished  it  at  a 
time  when  death  had  already  stretched  out  for  her  his 
fleshless  arms.  And  this  although,  since  he  was  always 
sick  himself,  he  knew  just  what  discomfort  illness  and 
pain  impose.  And  in  dying,  the  victim  of  his  lawless 
thoughts  had  bequeathed  to  him  the  very  thing  that  had 
caused  him  such  an  unholy  joy  and  such  unholy  desires. 
He  was  a  beast.  Nay,  more.  He  was  a  devil.  Probably 
if  he  had  lived  at  an  earlier  period  and  had  had  the  power, 
he  would  have  been  a  second  Nero.  Perhaps  he  had  been 
Nero.  Perhaps  he  had  burned  Rome  for  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  it  in  flames.  Perhaps  he  had  been  Caligula.  And 
the  more  he  thought  about  it,  the  more  probable  it  seemed 
to  him  that  in  some  previous  life  he  had  been  one  of  these 
monsters.  He  had,  as  we  know,  received  virtually  no 
religious  instruction  whatever,  but  he  had  read  of  the 
Egyptian  belief  of  transmigration  of  souls.  And  his  re 
ligious  fantasy,  reaching  out,  appropriated  the  convenient 
doctrine  in  the  hour  of  his  spiritual  downfall. 

For  a  little  while  he  was  very  miserable.  Then,  in  turn 
ing  over  the  pages  of  the  Dictionary,  he  discovered  the 
word  "tumulosity,"  and  was  forthwith  plunged  into  such 
an  ecstasy  of  joy  that  he  forgot  all  about  his  secret  guilt. 

About  ten  days  later  he  was  told  by  his  mother  that  his 
new  companion-nurse  would  arrive  in  a  few  days  and  that 
she  was  to  make  her  home  with  them. 

"Is  she  just  like  Frau  Schuster?"  the  child  asked,  eagerly. 

From  the  quickness  with  which  he  shot  the  question  at 
her,  his  mother  perceived  that  he  had  taken  it  for  granted 
that  the  delay  in  providing  a  new  companion  for  him  had 
been  occasioned  by  the  natural  difficulties  which  beset  the 
quest  for  an  exact  counterpart  of  Frau  Schuster.  How 
confused,  after  all,  was  even  a  clever  child's  ratiocination. 
Frau  Ursula  smiled  oddly,  wryly. 

"She  is  like  Frau  Schuster  in  that  she  is  a  widow. 
Otherwise,  she  is  entirely  different." 

"But,  Mother,  then  will  she  do  ?" 

The  unconscious  tribute  to  the  dead  woman  implied  by 
this  adorable  simplicity  touched  Frau  Ursula  to  the  quick. 


CHILDHOOD  87 

She  wished,  fully  conscious  of  the  futility  of  such  wishing, 
that  the  poor  old  woman  might  have  had  the  comfort  of 
knowing  on  what  sublime  heights  dwelt  the  lad's  esteem 
of  herself. 

"I  think  she  will  do  very  well,  indeed,  Guido,  if  you 
will  like  her  and  if  she  will  like  you." 

"And  in  what  way  is  she  different,  Mother?" 

"In  the  first  place,  dear,  she  is  not  a  German." 

"Not  a  German?  But,  Mother,  how  then  will  I  be  able 
to  talk  to  her?" 

"I  think,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  smiling  broadly,  "that  you 
are  quite  capable  of  making  yourself  understood  in 
English." 

"Yes,  of  course — only — that  is — Mother!"  He  wound 
up  weakly,  fully  aware  that  his  feeble  tongue  was  not  able 
to  cope  in  the  least  with  the  multitude  of  objections  which 
accrued  to  an  American  in  the  capacity  of  companion- 
nurse. 

He  had  in  all  his  little  life  met  only  three  or  four  real 
Americans,  as  he  and  friend  Otto  invariably  designated 
Americans  of  Anglo-Saxon  extraction  to  distinguish  them 
from  themselves.  There  was,  for  instance,  an  old  Mr. 
Furlong,  who  kept  a  stationery  store  near  the  school.  His 
manner  and  accent,  although  there  was  nothing  ominous 
in  either,  awed  Guido,  almost  frightened  him.  It  seemed 
mysterious,  as  if  coming  from  some  higher  region  of  the 
world — or  the  throat.  The  fact  that  he  understood  Mr. 
Furlong  perfectly,  knew  the  meaning  of  every  word  spoken 
by  him,  while  on  the  other  hand  his  own  tongue  was  in 
capable  of  breathing  that  subtle  enchantment  upon  the  same 
work-a-day  words,  made  the  thing  so  baffling. 

He  would  never  feel  at  home  with  an  American,  he 
thought.  They  awed  him  too  mightily. 

Then,  too,  constant  contact  with  an  American  would  rob 
that  semi-luminous,  semi-nebulous  fairyland  inhabited  by 
difficult  English  words  of  its  glamour  and  fragrance. 
Dozens  of  words  there  were,  which  he  loved  in  appearance 
and  sound,  while  having  only  a  hazy  idea  of  their  meaning. 
He  v/as  almost  afraid  to  inquire  too  narrowly  into  their 
meaning.  He  studiously  avoided  scanning  the  definitions 
in  the  dictionary  printed  alongside  of  these  gorgeous 


88  THE  HYPHEN 

charmers.  He  was  content  to  be  fascinated  by  them  with 
out  troubling  closely  to  scrutinize  their  characters. 

Worst  of  all,  perhaps,  with  an  American  in  the  house, 
his  mother  would  be  forced  to  speak  English,  a  practice 
which  he  abhorred.  Frau  Ursula's  English  had  no  curious 
twists  and  turns,  her  accent  was  not  bad,  was,  in  fact, 
deemed  pretty  by  the  Americans  with  whom  she  had 
speech,  being  an  intonation  rather  than  a  crude  distortion. 
But  Guido,  who  had  the  ear  of  a  purist,  and  who  gloried 
in  the  meticulousness  of  her  German,  thought  her  English 
insufferable.  His  admiration  and  love  for  her  dwelt  on 
so  high  a  plane  that  he  could  not  bear  to  think  of  her  as 
less  than  perfect  in  any  way. 

Furthermore,  he  was  the  victim  of  an  unhappy  feeling 
which  dated  back  to  a  day  when  his  mother  had  pointed 
out  to  him,  then  a  tiny  boy  of  five,  the  first  real  Americans 
he  had  ever  consciously  beheld.  They  were  so  well  dressed 
and  so  well  groomed,  so  free  from  noisy  gestures  and  ex 
aggerated  speech,  that,  from  that  day  on  a  vivid  portrait 
of  that  American  family  had  been  clearly  limned  in  his 
mind,  and  he  had  come  to  regard  his  early  model  as  a  sort 
of  composite  portrait  of  all  American  families. 

Henceforth  Americans  had  appeared  to  him  to  constitute 
a  superior  race. 

And  right  here  he  was  forced  into  a  cruel,  a  hazardous 
predicament.  To  confess  this  emotion  to  his  mother,  who 
was  German-born,  was  to  stigmatize  her  as  having  sprung 
from  an  inferior  race.  His  love  forbade  the  infliction  of 
such  a  hurt  upon  her  who  was  dearer  to  him  than  all  the 
world  beside.  He  took  himself  very  seriously,  and  like  all 
persons,  childrens  or  grown-ups,  who  have  a  taste  for  that 
form  of  entertainment,  he  became  intensely  miserable. 

Of  one  thing  he  was  sure.  He  must  keep  his  objections 
and  his  despondency  to  himself,  and  submit  to  having  this 
wondrous  creature  from  another  realm  invade  his  own 
humble  sphere.  Henceforth  he  must  go  cold  in  winter, 
hot  in  summer,  uncomfortable  at  all  seasons.  For  never, 
never,  NEVER  would  he  be  able  to  ask  an  American  to 
fetch  him  a  glass  of  water,  to  put  an  extra  blanket  on  his 
bed,  to  thwack  his  pillows,  to  open  the  window  or  to  per 
form  any  of  the  hundred  and  one  ministrations  of  the 
sick-room. 


CHILDHOOD  89 

Princesses  and  fairies  were  all  very  well  between  story 
book  covers,  but  why  should  they  wish  to  step  out  of  the 
golden  frame  into  the  drab  dank  world  of  commonplace? 

He  perceived  with  bitterness  inexpressible  that  it  was  im 
possible  to  magnify  the  disaster  which  loomed  ahead. 

The  name  of  the  Disaster  was  Mrs.  Donald  Thornton. 
The  name,  which  satisfied  both  Guido's  sense  of  romance 
and  love  of  euphony,  under  other  circumstances,  would 
have  been  a  mine  of  delight.  As  matters  stood,  it  only 
put  a  keener  edge  upon  his  misery.  Mrs.  Donald  Thornton, 
as  one  could  tell  by  the  name,  would  not  fit  in  with  Anas- 
quoit  society.  Among  the  Schumachers,  the  Herrlichs,  the 
Ladenhoffs  and  Dieseldoeffers.  He  imagined  her  as  a  sort 
of  Dowager  Duchess,  with  a  long  black  veil,  heavily  edged 
with  crepe,  a  haughty  mien,  cuffs  and  collars  of  real 
Brussels  lace  and  an  accent  so  distinguished  and  English 
that  he  would  never  be  able  to  utter  a  single,  silly  word 
in  her  presence.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  think  of  Frau 
Schuster's  successor  as  other  than  old. 

It  was  high  noon  of  a  blustery  April  day  when  the 
Disaster  arrived.  Little  wind  flurries  had  stirred  the  dust 
in  the  street  and  had  left  it  lying  in  tiny  heaps  against 
fences  and  stoops  and  in  area-ways,  as  if  it  had  been  snow. 
But  the  sky  was  gloriously  blue,  the  clouds  virginally  white 
and  the  air  a  thing  to  drink  in  as  greedily  as  apple  cider 
at  Thanskgiving. 

Guido,  straining  every  nerve  to  hear,  listened  anxiously 
to  the  greetings  which  were  being  exchanged  in  the  parlor 
by  his  mother  and  the  Calamity.  The  sounds  which  reached 
him  were  not  formidable.  Nevertheless  he  was  terribly 
agitated.  He  expected,  he  knew  not  what.  His  hands 
were  cold  and  clammy.  His  brow  was  feverish  with  ex 
citement. 

Finally,  after  an  interminabfe  conversation,  of  which 
Guido  did  not  understand  a  word  because  his  mother  and 
the  stranger  had  lowered  their  voices,  his  mother  ushered 
in  Mrs.  Thornton.  And  then  poor  Guido  had  the  surprise 
of  his  life.  The  Disaster  was  not  old  and  haughty  and 
crisp  and  Duchess-like.  She  was  young,  so  very  young 
that  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  she  had  ever  been  married 
and  was  now  a  widow.  For  Guido  had  the  average  child's 


90  THE  HYPHEN 

notion  that  all  married  folk — always  excepting  its  own 
mother — are  old  and  staid,  or  at  least  well  on  in  middle 
age.  In  spite  of  her  widowhood,  which  was  recent,  she 
was  not  dressed  in  mourning.  She  wore  a  dark-blue 
mannish  suit  with  a  shirtwaist  of  pink  crepe  de  chine  and 
a  trimmed,  high-crowned  sailor  hat. 

And  she  was  pretty,  quite  preposterously  pretty.  Her 
brown  hair  seemed  to  have  snared  some  of  the  glory  of 
the  April  sun,  and,  as  she  entered,  the  room  seemed  filled 
with  a  sudden  bright  effulgence.  Guido,  who  had  in  a 
superlative  degree  the  passive  power  of  being  charmed, 
fell  desperately  in  love  with  her  in  a  moment.  He  was 
so  delighted  with  Mrs.  Thornton's  winning,  sweet  person 
ality  that  he  forgot  to  be  frightened.  Instantly  he  enthroned 
her  in  the  inner  shrine  of  his  heart,  very  near  the  holy  of 
holies  where  his  mother's  image  dwelt. 

"So  this  is  the  little  man  I  am  to  sit  with,"  said  Mrs. 
Thornton,  and,  as  if  divining  that  he  hated  to  have  grown 
ups  stand  near  his  bed  and  loom  down  upon  him  like  the 
Pyramids  or  the  leaning  Tower  of  Pisa,  immediately 
seated  herself  in  a  chair  quite  near  his  bed.  Very  slowly 
she  drew  her  soft  suede  gloves  from  her  hands.  The  action 
entranced  him. 

"I  hope  we  are  going  to  be  good  friends,  Guido,"  she 
said,  in  a  voice  as  winning  as  her  personality. 

In  the  fantastic  loneliness  in  which  his  life  was  lapped, 
he  had  rehearsed  this  meeting  with  Mrs.  Thornton  not 
once  but  a  dozen  times,  just  as  he  had  tried  to  draw  a 
mental  portrait  of  her.  Each  rehearsal  had  suggested  a 
new  modification.  None  of  them  had  tallied  with  the 
reality.  Now,  in  view  of  the  simple  directness  of  her 
greeting,  all  his  efforts  at  a  forecast  seemed  labored  and 
crude.  But,  because  he  had  bungled  in  imagination,  was 
no  reason  why  he  should  bungle  now.  He  wanted  des 
perately  to  put  his  best  foot  forward,  to  charm  as  he  had 
been  charmed. 

"I'm  sure  we  are  going  to  be  good  friends,"  he  said, 
shyly.  "We  will  be,  if  it  depends  upon  me." 

"You  dear  little  lad!"  Mrs.  Thornton  exclaimed,  placing 
soft,  pink  fingers  on  his  white,  cold  little  hand.  "Why,  I 
love  you  already." 

He  looked  at  her  pleadingly  with  his  soft,  dark  eyes. 


CHILDHOOD  91 

He  wanted  to  tell  her  that  he  was  her  abject  slave.  But 
he  was  afraid  she  might  laugh  at  him  if  he  employed  so 
energetic  a  mode  of  describing  his  attachment.  So  he  said, 
quite  simply: 

"I  think  you  are  wonderful.  I  like  you  more  than  any 
one  I've  ever  met,  excepting,  of  course,  my  mother." 

"You  adorable  little  boy!"  Impulsively  she  flung  her 
arms  about  him,  and  straining  him  to  her  heart,  kissed  him 
softly  on  brow  and  neck. 

When  she  released  him  he  perceived  that  her  eyes  were 
moist.  She  was  struggling  to  overcome  some  supreme 
emotion.  Suddenly  she  broke  into  sobs.  She  rose,  and 
walked  away  from  his  bed  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
room,  his  mother  following. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  "it  is  going  to  be  too 
hard  for  you." 

"Oh,  no,"  Mrs.  Thornton  retorted.  "I'm  not  crying  be 
cause  it  is  going  to  be  hard,  but  because  it  is  going  to  be 
so  sweet.  He's  perfect — oh,  quite  perfect!  If  you  knew 
how  empty  my  arms  have  been — it's  a  God-send,  dear  Mrs. 
Hauser.  It's  going  to  help  me  lots.  The  double  cross  was 
almost  more  than  I  could  bear.  I'm  ashamed  of  my  weak 
ness." 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  Guido  heard  his  mother  say, 
tenderly. 

He  reflected  on  the  queerness  of  women.  They  must 
both  think  him  very  obtuse  if  they  flattered  themselves  that 
he  did  not  know  what  they  were  speaking  about.  From 
Mrs.  Thornton's  disjointed  ejaculations  he  knew  as  plainly 
as  if  he  had  been  told  that  she  had  recently  lost  a  little 
child  as  well  as  her  husband.  And  he  understood  his 
mother's  mode  of  reasoning  perfectly.  Because  he  himself 
was  ill  she  did  not  wish  to  have  anyone  tell  him  of  the 
death  of  a  child,  as  if  he  didn't  know  from  his  story  books 
that  children  died  as  readily  as  adults.  And  he  was  not 
afraid  of  death.  Not  in  the  least.  He  had  never  been 
present  at  a  funeral,  had  never  looked  upon  the  face  of  a 
corpse,  and  in  spite  of  the  passionate  seriousness  with 
which  his  imagination  worked  upon  any  subject  to  which 
it  fastened  itself,  there  were  strange  gaps  in  his  flights  of 
fancy  which  corresponded  to  the  gaps  in  his  knowledge  of 
the  outside  world — chasms  which  imagination  could  not 


92  THE  HYPHEN 

bridge  without  some  suggestion  of  reality  from  which  to 
swing  its  cables. 

He  knew  nothing  of  the  theories  of  heaven  and  hell, 
nothing  of  atheism.  When  he  thought  of  death  he  thought 
of  it  not  as  an  extinction  but  an  enlargement  of  life.  That 
he  had  no  concept  whatever  as  to  the  nature  of  the  Great 
Beyond,  added  to  the  zest  of  the  adventure  involved  in 
that  final  expedition.  Death  was  a  tremendous  excursion, 
a  tremendous  augmentation  of  one's  powers.  Of  that  he 
felt  certain. 

He  was  a  little  irritated  by  the  secrecy  in  which  his 
mother  and  Mrs.  Thornton  were  trying  to  hide  the  bald 
fact  that  Mrs.  Thornton  had  lost  a  child.  He  was  tempted 
to  tell  them  that  he  knew.  Then  he  reflected  it  would  be 
unkind  to  spoil  their  illusion  of  mystery. 

"I  am  going  to  leave  you  alone  with  Guide  so  that  you 
may  become  acquainted  with  each  other,"  said  Frau  Ursula. 
"I  must  not  speak  much  to  you  in  his  presence,"  she  added, 
mischievously. 

Mrs.  Thornton  expressed  a  perfectly  natural  astonish 
ment. 

"You  see,"  Frau  Ursula  continued,  still  mischievous, 
"Guido  objects  to  my  English." 

"Mother!"  Poor  Guido's  face  was  crimson.  Now 
Mrs.  Thornton  would  think  him  a  very  horrid  little  boy. 
"It's  like  this,"  he  murmured,  "Mother's  German  is  so 
beautiful,  and,  well,  her  English  isn't." 

"I  understand  perfectly,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton,  smiling, 
and  patting  his  hand.  "You  see,  it's  just  the  reverse  with 
me.  My  English  is — well,  not  beautiful,  exactly,  but 
tolerable — while  my  German  is  a  thing  to  shudder  at." 

Mother  and  son  expressed  their  surprise  at  the  un 
suspected  accomplishment  of  German. 

"Ich  sprechen  ein  klein  Bischen,  aber  ich  verstehen 
alles"  said  Mrs.  Thornton,  screwing  her  mouth  into  a 
comical  caricature  of  itself,  and  speaking  in  a  queer, 
strained  voice  that  chopped  the  words  into  stiff,  hard  syl 
lables  spiked  with  corners  and  bristles.  Almost  it  seemed 
as  if  she  wished  to  ridicule  the  German  language  which, 
as  she  was  a  gentlewoman,  was,  of  course,  unthinkable. 
Also,  she  had,  in  one  brief  little  sentence,  made  two  bad 
breaks.  One  thing  was  certain.  Mrs.  Thornton's  German 


CHILDHOOD  93 

was  quite  as  excruciating  as  his  mother's  English.  Guido 
was  rather  glad  to  have  discovered  this  imperfection  in 
Mrs.  Thornton.  It  did  not  cheapen  her  in  his  eyes.  It 
merely  restored  his  self-esteem  which  had  lain  sick  and 
wounded  for  so  long  a  time  owing  to  his  mother's  disa 
bility.  Probably,  he  reflected,  each  would  address  the  other 
in  her  own  tongue;  and  he  was  glad  of  it. 

Mrs.  Thornton  was  a  revelation  to  Guido.  He  drank 
in  greedily  every  peculiarity  of  speech  and  manner.  Be 
cause  she  was  an  American,  she  had  for  him,  who  was 
American-born  himself,  the  charm  of  the  exotic.  She 
affected  him  as  did  the  alpine  violets  which  Dr.  Koenig 
sent  to  his  mother  every  Christmas,  flowers  which,  by  no 
stretch  of  the  imagination,  could  he  fancy  as  growing  in 
anything  so  familiar  as  his  own  garden. 

She  used  a  good  many  expressions  which,  because  they 
were  new  to  him,  delighted  him  inordinately.  He  loved 
to  hear  her  say,  "Really?"  and  "Just  fancy  such  a  thing." 
He  thought  "I  presume"  a  great  improvement  on  "I 
think,"  as  he  himself  would  have  said,  and  on  "I  guess," 
which  was  Otto's  non-committal  way  of  expressing  an 
opinion.  He  was  a  little  puzzled  by  Mrs.  Thornton's  habit 
of  using  unexpectedly  the  word  "right."  She  said  "right 
pretty"  and  "right  cold,"  instead  of  "very  pretty"  and  "very 
cold."  He  had,  at  this  period  of  his  life,  not  the  faintest 
notion  that  there  were  colloquialisms  in  English  as  well 
as  in  German.  Frau  Heinrichs,  the  washerwoman,  spoke 
plattdeutsch  (low  German)  and  Frau  Schuster,  to  amuse 
him  had  sometimes  broken  into  the  dialect  of  Baden,  where 
she  had  lived  for  some  years  after  her  marriage,  and  he 
knew  that  there  were  dozens  of  other  German  dialects  in 
addition  to  these  two.  But  he  did  not  know  at  this  time 
that  the  English  of  Scotland  and  the  English  of  Ireland 
not  only  differ  from  each  other,  but  differ  from  the  English 
of  Wales,  of  Lancashire,  of  Soho  and  Mayfair. 

It  was  therefore  a  very  wise  move  on  his  mother's  part 
that  she  had  brought  America,  in  the  person  of  Mrs. 
Thornton,  into  her  boy's  ken  as  an  antidote  to  the  unes- 
capable  German  and  German-American  atmosphere  in 
which  the  lad  lived,  since  his  schoolmates,  and  his  teachers, 
and  his  friends,  and  the  servants  inevitably  provided  it. 

He  would   have   loved   dearly  to   copy  some  of   Mrs. 


94  THE  HYPHEN 

Thornton's  more  conspicuous  expressions,  but  ordinarily  he 
lacked  the  courage  to  do  so.  One  day,  to  overawe  Otto, 
he  essayed  Mrs.  Thornton's  style,  but  instead  of  overawing 
Otto,  he  merely  excited  his  scorn. 

"You  think  you're  real  smart,  don't  you?"  taunted  Otto. 
"Oh,  I  beg  pardon,  I  meant  to  say  'right'  smart.  If  you 
don't  look  out,  you'll  be  a  regular  American,"  he  concluded, 
warningly. 

"But  that's  what  I  want  to  be,"  said  Guido,  hotly. 

"Well,  if  you'd  rather  be  an  American  than  a  German 
you're  a  boob,"  continued  Otto.  "Americans  don't  know 
much.  My  farder  says  so.  They're  not  thorough  the  way 
Germans  are  thorough.  Anyhow,  you'll  be  nothing  but  a 
copy-cat.  You  say  'Right-O,'  and  'What  a  lark,'  and 
'How  absurd,'  just  the  way  Mrs.  Thornton  says  it.  Next 
thing  you'll  be  wearing  your  hair  fluffed  up  over  your 
temples  and  be  begging  your  mother  for  girl's  dresses." 

Guido  was  white  with  rage,  but  he  was  just  enough  to 
realize  that,  in  a  measure,  he  had  deserved  Otto's  ridicule. 
So,  instead  of  retaliating,  he  fenced. 

"You  like  Mrs.  Thornton  yourself,"  he  said,  in  his  top- 
loftiest  manner. 

"Sure  thing,  why  not?"  conceded  Otto.  "That  marble 
cake  she  baked  was  fine.  And  that  pudding  of  hers  with 
custard  jelly  and  beaten  cream  and  whipped  white  of  eggs 
was  just  grand." 

"Whipped  cream  and  beaten  white  of  eggs,"  corrected 
Guido,  gently,  feeling  that  he  was  scoring  a  dozen  points. 

"Well,  it  tastes  just  as  good  no  matter  what  you  call 
it,"  said  Otto,  wholly  unabashed.  "My  mother  said,"  he 
continued,  "she  wouldn't  mind  having  the  recipe  for  that 
pudding." 

"Indeed!"  Guido  had  been  within  an  ace  of  saying 
"Really,"  but  had  caught  himself  in  time.  "Can  an  Ameri 
can  teach  a  German  anything?  I  thought  Americans  didn't 
know  anything  and  Germans  knew  it  all." 

"You  are  very  sarkastisch  at  times,"  said  Otto,  looking 
hot  and  red. 

After  that  Otto's  braggadocio  was  a  litte  less  offensive 
than  before,  while  Guido  refrained  from  deliberately  pilfer 
ing  from  another  person's  terminology,  no  matter  how 
tempting  the  outlay. 


CHILDHOOD  95 

Mrs.  Thornton's  stories — for  of  course  Guido  requisi 
tioned  stories  from  her  as  from,  all  other  adults — were 
replete  with  the  atmosphere  of  America.  Her  girlhood 
had  been  spent  on  a  farm  in  the  Middle  West,  and  the 
tales  she  told  Guido  reflected  the  homely  charm  and,  it 
must  be  confessed,  the  somewhat  narrow  life  of  the  Ameri 
can  farmer.  Her  tales  were  of  sewing  bees,  quilting 
parties,  prayer-meetings  and  revivals;  of  the  daily  round 
of  chores,  plowing  and  sowing  and  driving  the  cattle  to 
pasture  and  home  again;  of  butter-churning,  of  bread  and 
pie-baking,  of  preserving  and  canning  and  rag-carpet 
weaving.  From  her  stories  the  child  gleaned  his  first  in 
sight  into  the  typical  life  of  American  America,  which  is  not 
found  in  the  cities  or  even  in  the  suburbs  as  much  as  in  the 
broad  expanses  of  fertile  acres  in  the  sparsely  populated 
country  in  which  all  the  States,  even  the  Eastern  States, 
abound.  These  stories  broadened  his  horizon  and  enlarged 
his  vocabulary.  He  learned  the  English  names  of  many 
simple  household  utensils  and  implements  which,  incredible 
as  it  seems,  he  had  heretofore  been  able  to  name  in  German 
only.  Such  simple  words  as  newel-post,  gridiron,  crane, 
threshold  and  eaves  were  new  to  him,  and  as  his  vocabu- 
larly  became  enriched,  his  diction  became  more  flexible, 
his  locutions  simpler.  He  himself  was  unaware  of  the 
change,  but  he  was  falling  more  and  more  into  the  English 
idiom  in  speaking  English.  Perversions  which  he  had 
formerly  used,  as  "leave  a  little  over  for  me,"  and  "that's 
for  the  cat,"  were  expurgated  forever  from  his  vocabulary. 

Mrs.  Thornton  had  another  accomplishment  which  he 
coveted.  She  was  an  indefatigable  knitter.  He  begged 
long  and  hard  to  be  taught  this  feminine  art  before  she 
would  allow  him  to  ask  his  mother's  consent. 

Frau  Ursula  laughed  when  questioned. 

"Why  not?"  she  said.  "Why  should  he  not  learn  to 
knit  if  he  wishes  to?  There  was  an  officer  in  a  crack 
German  regiment  whom  we  knew  very  well  who  was  an 
expert  knitter,"  she  added,  reminiscently. 

Mrs.  Thornton  had  been  reading  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount  to  Guido  and  she  now  took  up  the  Bible  and  re 
sumed  reading  where  she  had  left  off.  She  had  not  read 
more  than  a  few  sentences  when  she  became  aware  of 


96  THE  HYPHEN 

Frau  Ursula  standing  beside  her,  very  white  and  a  little 
peremptory. 

"Verzeihung,"  she  said,  "is  it  the  Bible  you  are  reading 
to  Guido  ?" 

"Why,  yes,"  Mrs.  Thornton  replied,  a  little  surprised. 
"There  is  no  objection,  is  there?" 

"Oh,  Mother,"  Guido  cried,  "please  don't  forbid  me  to 
read  the  Scriptures.  I  love  them.  And  it's  the  loveliest 
Bible  you  ever  saw.  It's  so  old  it  contains  the  Maccabees. 
Just  look  at  it,  Mutterchen!" 

Mrs.  Thornton  handed  it  to  Frau  Ursula,  smiling,  ana 
Frau  Ursula,  annoyed  with  herself  for  having  shown  her 
concern,  received  the  book  and  turned  over  the  pages  care 
lessly.  After  all,  it  was  impossible  never  to  allow  the  child 
to  see  a  Bible.  She  herself  had  permitted  him  to  accom 
pany  her  to  church  a  few  times.  What  a  puzzle  it  was 
that  confronted  her?  How  was  No-Bias  possible?  How? 

As  she  nervously  continued  to  turn  over  the  pages  of 
Mrs.  Thornton's  well-thumbed  Bible,  it  fell  open  at  the 
fly-leaf,  which  was  almost  entirely  covered  with  names  in 
various  handwritings,  which,  very  evidently,  were  the  sig 
natures  of  the  various  Thorntons  who  had  owned  the 
volume.  Alongside  of  each  name  was  a  date — the  date 
on  which  possession  had  been  acquired. 

Mrs.  Thornton  leaned  over  toward  Frau  Ursula,  and 
ran  her  fingers  down  the  column  of  names.  She  found  the 
name  which  she  was  seeking.  Indicating  it,  she  said: 

"He  was  one  of  the  Signers." 

"One  of  the  Signers?"  Frau  Ursula  inquired  politely, 
non-comprehension  in  her  eyes. 

But  Guido,  who  was  younger,  more  alert,  more  Ameri 
canized,  divined  the  meaning  of  the  word  thus  used. 

"One  of  the  Signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence !" 
he  cried,  almost  boisterously. 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Thornton  nodded,  smiling  at  his  enthusiasm. 

"Oh,  Mother,  isn't  it  wonderful?" 

He  was  lost  in  exuberant  delight.  At  the  moment  Mrs. 
Thornton  seemed  to  him  almost  sacrosanct,  a  personage  so 
exalted  that  she  should  be  surrounded  with  the  circum 
stances  of  pomp.  It  seemed  incredible  to  him  that  she 
should  be  sitting  there  at  his  bedside,  playing  with  him  and 


CHILDHOOD  97 

taking  care  of  him  as  if  she  had  been  just  an  ordinary 
every-day  person  like  himself. 

"My  husband,"  Mrs.  Thornton  was  saying,  "was  not  a 
lineal  descendant,  and  the  Bible  came  to  him  in  a  round 
about  way  through  a  distant  kinsman.  I  myself  am  a 
Daughter  of  the  Revolution." 

Guide's  sense  of  awe  increased.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  he  had  come  into  flesh-and-blood  contact  with  his 
toric  America,  and  the  effect  was  exhilarating.  Of  historic 
Germany  Frau  Ursula  had  told  him  so  much;  of  the  Free 
Cities,  of  the  Hansastaedte,  of  the  Zuenfte  of  old  Nurem 
berg,  of  the  Fuggers,  the  Roths — those  merchant  princes 
of  Augsburg  who  burned  sandalwood  instead  of  logs  in 
the  hearth  at  which  they  welcomed  Charles  V;  of  Martin 
Luther;  of  Weimar  and  all  it  stood  for;  of  Wagner  and 
the  Mad  King  of  Bavaria  and  his  Schwanenschloss. 
These  were  the  traditions  in  which  his  mother  had  been 
bred,  and  which  she  was  able  to  impart  to  him  by  word 
of  mouth.  He  had  found  them  enchanting  excursions  into 
a  real,  not  a  make-believe,  fairyland. 

But  to  come  into  intimate  contact  with  the  historic  life 
of  America,  the  life  whose  sinews  were  interbound  with 
those  intellectual  giants  who  had  made  America,  was  even 
more  delightful.  It  was  more  than  delightful.  It  was 
intoxicating.  There  were  times  when  the  Revolution  had 
seemed  to  him  unreal  when  juxtaposed  to  the  historic 
events  of  Germany  of  which  his  mother  had  told  him. 
That  was  so,  of  course,  because  the  impressionable  mind 
of  a  child  derives  an  almost  tangible  sustenance  from  the 
gestures,  the  inflections  of  the  voice,  the  mere  physical 
presence  of  the  story-teller.  He  had  hungered  often  and 
often  for  personal  glimpses,  for  a  personal  point  of  con 
tact  with  his  own  country.  And  although  he  had  been 
born  on  American  soil,  and  had  lived  in  his  native  land 
almost  all  his  life,  he  had,  until  now,  been  virtually  in 
sulated  from  American  life  by  the  thick  strata  of  German 
life  and  German  thought  and  German  speech  which  sur 
rounded  him  on  all  sides. 

It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  Mrs.  Thornton's  brief 
mention  of  her  husband's  antecedents  did  more  to  visualize 
America  for  Guido  as  an  actuality  than  all  the  books  he 
had  read  and  all  the  lessons  he  had  learned  "in  American 


98  THE  HYPHEN 

history"  put  together.  Heretofore  he  had  been  an  exile 
in  the  heart  of  his  own  country;  now,  abruptly,  he  knew 
that  he  belonged  to  America  and  America  to  him.  He 
had  lived  through  a  spiritual  experience  of  great  pith  and 
moment. 

Frau  Ursula  returned  the  Bible  to  Mrs.  Thornton.  She 
sighed  deeply.  Then  she  said,  speaking  German: 

"You  are  a  fortunate  woman,  Mrs.  Thornton.  Your 
forbears,  for  generations,  have  lived  on  free  soil.  You 
accept  this  wonderful  heritage  quiescently,  indifferently,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  and  consequently  you  have  no  obliga 
tions  excepting  those  which  bind  you  more  closely  to  your 
own  country.  You  have  no  conception — it  is  impossible 
that  you  should  have — how  very  fortunate  you  are." 

And,  as  she  did  not  prohibit  the  Bible  readings,  Mrs. 
Thornton  felt  herself  at  liberty  to  continue  them. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FRAU  URSULA  paid  another  visit  to  Dr.  Koenig's  office 
the  following  morning. 

"I  am  beginning  to  look  upon  you  as  my  spiritual  as 
well  as  my  medical  adviser,"  she  said.  "Somehow  I  can 
speak  more  freely  to  you  than  to  Pastor  Marlow.  Do  you 
mind?" 

"I  am  immensely  flattered,  dear  lady,"  said  Dr.  Koenig. 
"More  than  that,  I  am  interested."  He  opened  a  drawer 
and  drew  forth  a  daguerreotype  which  he  handed  to  her. 

"Guide's  grandfather  at  twenty-five,"  he  said.  "Some 
day  the  boy  shall  have  it." 

Frau  Ursula  exclaimed  in  astonishment. 

"Why,"  she  cried,  "the  boy  looks  like  him!  I  always 
thought  that  his  dark  eyes  and  his  dark  hair  were  a  legacy 
from  his  mother.  His  father,  you  know,  was  blue-eyed 
and  had  fair  hair.  Ah!  How  happy  this  makes  me.  I 
had  feared,  I  had  feared "  she  broke  off  abruptly. 

"As  your  spiritual  adviser  I  feel  at  liberty  to  tell  you 
what  you  feared,"  said  Dr.  Koenig,  smiling.  "You  feared 
that  Guide's  dark  hair  and  dark  eyes  outwardly  symbolized 
the  darkness  coming  to  him  through  the  mother  and — ; 
mayhap,  lurking  somewhere  in  his  soul." 

"Ah !"  she  cried,  "you  think  me  very  unfair." 

"I  think  you  are  very  much  a  woman,"  he  said,  gravely, 
leaving  her  to  wonder  whether  he  considered  her — or 
generic  woman — the  incarnation  of  unfairness,  or  whether 
he  had  merely  guessed  the  emotional  tie  that  bound  her 
so  strongly  to  the  boy. 

She  felt  a  little  pained,  she  could  hardly  have  said  why, 
but  she  was  too  much  of  a  utilitarian  to  nurse  a  minor 
wound  when  matters  of  greater  moment  required  her  un 
divided  attention  and  his  counsel. 

"Yesterday,"  she  said,  coming  to  the  point  abruptly,  "I 
found  Mrs.  Thornton  reading  to  Guido  from  the  New 
Testament.  My  difficulties  are  multiplying.  How  can  I 

99 


ioo  THE  HYPHEN 

maintain  an  attitude  of  No-Bias?  Both  in  religion  and 
politics.  He  loves  the  Bible,  he  tells  me,  and  last  night 
at  eleven,  when  I  thought  him  sound  asleep,  he  suddenly 
sat  bolt  upright  in  bed  and  in  a  whisper  repeated  the  Lord's 
Prayer  thrice  over.  Then  he  lay  down  and  slept." 

"Prayer,"  mused  Dr.  Koenig,  "is  an  excellent  disciplin 
arian.  In  Guide's  case — last  night — I  have  no  doubt  that 
he  would  have  required  a  sedative  if,  following  an  uner 
ring  instinct,  he  had  not  helped  himself  to  a  dose  of 
spiritual  asafcetida." 

"You  are  trifling!"  said  Frau  Ursula.  She  was  a  little 
shocked  at  what  seemed  to  her  levity  in  sacred  matters. 

"I  assure  you  I  am  not.  But,  if  that  viewpoint  dis 
pleases  you,  here  is  another.  Guido  may  regard  the  Lord's 
Prayer  in  the  light  of  a  literary,  not  a  religious  exercise." 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  "you  are  humorous  this  morning." 

"Meine  Hebe  Frau  Hauser !"  The  old  physician  had  be 
come  very  grave.  "You  know  how  deeply  the  German 
language  is  indebted  to  Luther's  translation  of  the  Bible, 
because,  happening  at  a  critical  period,  it  helped  to  form 
the  German  vernacular  and  to  stabilize  it.  Similarly,  the 
King  James  version  of  the  English  Bible,  together  with 
Shakespeare,  stabilized  and  vitalized  the  English  language. 
The  German  Bible  is  much  more  archaic  in  expression  than 
the  English  Bible.  Indeed,  the  English  Bible  is  a  remark 
able  production,  one  of  those  translations  which  vie  in 
literary  quality,  vigor  and  polish  with  the  original.  It 
deserves  the  high  place  accorded  it  by  cultured  Americans 
and  cultured  Englishmen,  irrespective  of  creed.  Guido, 
with  his  passion  for  books,  was  bound  to  discover  it  some 
time  or  other.  Let  him  read  it  and  rejoice  in  it.  English 
and  American  culture  are  so  inseparably  interbound  with 
the  Bible  and  with  Shakespeare  that  I  see  no  possibility 
of  eliding  either  from  his  life." 

"You  see,"  Frau  Ursula  responded,  "I  am  trying  des 
perately  to  be  fair  to  his  mother.  Personally  nothing 
would  make  me  happier  than  to  see  Guido  turn  to  some 
church — some  Protestant  church,  of  course — of  his  own 
accord.  But  his  mother  was  very  insistent  on  this  point. 
His  education  was  to  be  non-sectarian." 

Dr.  Koenig  smiled. 

"The  Bible  is  non-sectarian,"  he  said.     "And  unless  ex- 


CHILDHOOD  101 

traneous  influence  of  some  sort  is  brought  to  bear  upon 
the  boy,  I  am  certain  that  he  is  far  too  intelligent  to  accept 
either  the  New  or  Old  Testament  as  being  literally  true." 

"Ah !"  exclaimed  Frau  Ursula.  As  a  sound  church- 
woman  she  was  not  wholly  pleased  by  Dr.  Koenig's 
glancing  criticism.  Dr.  Koenig  continued: 

"He  will  see  in  the  Scriptures  an  enchanting  treasure- 
trove  of  stirring  tales,  and  the  New  Testament,  with  its 
miracles  of  birth  and  transfiguration,  will  appeal  to  him 
as  an  apotheosized  fairy-tale.  As  to  Christ's  ethical  teach 
ings,  there  are  none  finer  the  world  over.  On  that  point 
we  are  all  agreed." 

Frau  Ursula  sat  with  wrinkled  brow. 

"The  trouble  is,"  she  said,  "I  do  not  have  a  very  clear 
recollection  of  what  his  mother  said  touching  ethical  in 
struction.  Ah !"  she  cried  petulantly,  "what  a  quagmire 
of  irresolution  I  am  in.  There  are  times  when  I  pray 
for  strength  to  abandon  the  entire  lunatic  scheme  of  No- 
Bias !  What  good  can  come  of  it?  And  if  good  does 
come — SHE  will  not  be  there  to  see  it." 

Frau  Ursula's  method  of  uttering  the  third  person  singu 
lar,  feminine  neuter,  evades  description.  The  unfortunate 
pronoun  was  much  too  feeble  a  vehicle  for  the  burden  of 
contempt,  disdain,  disgust  and — it  must  be  confessed — 
anger  which  it  was  meant  to  convey. 

"I  think,"  the  old  physician  responded,  "that  you  are 
exaggerating  the  difficulties  which  beset  you — at  least  in 
this  particular.  If  you  think  it  necessary  to  offset  and 
neutralize  what  is  denominational  and  particular  in  the 
teachings  of  Christ,  all  you  need  do  is  to  place  in  Guide's 
hands  copies  of  the  sacred  books  of  the  Buddhists,  of  the 
Mohammedans,  of  the  Jews.  Note,  if  you  please,  that  I 
said  'if.'  Personally,  I  do  not  think  it  necessary.  Chris 
tianity,  in  many  respects,  is  the  finest  of  all  religions.  It 
had  been  a  tremendous  factor  in  building  up  Western 
civilization,  and  only  a  fanatic  could  object  to  its  teach 
ings." 

"And  I  thought  you  a  free-thinker!"  Frau  Ursula  ex 
claimed.  "I  confess,  I  did  not  expect  to  find  in  you  an 
eulogist  of  Christianity." 

"An  apologist  rather  than  an  eulogist!"  Dr.  Koenig  cor 
rected  Frau  Ursula,  with  a  smile.  "Even  a  free-thinker 


102  THE  HYPHEN 

is  not  free  from  bias.  Is  it  not  wonderful,  verehrte  Fran, 
that  the  ethical  teachings  of  Christ,  of  Buddha,  of  Moses, 
the  three  finest  religions  of  the  world,  are  identical  ?  Moses 
gave  us  the  Ten  Commandments  Christ  invested  them 
with  the  prestige  of  His  authority.  Buddha  enunciated 
the  Eightfold  Path  of  Virtue,  giving  a  less  compact  setting 
to  the  same  teachings.  Even  the  Golden  Rule  appears  in 
different  garb  in  no  less  than  three  religions.  Judaism,  in 
spite  of  the  awful  vision  of  a  wrathful  and  vindictive 
Jehovah — an-eye-for-an-eye  and  a-tooth-for-a-tooth- Jeho 
vah,  paved  the  way  for  it.  The  Golden  Rule  is  contained 
in  an  indirect  form  in  Leviticus  xix.  34.  Christ  gave 
it  to  the  world  in  a  clarified  and  purified  form,  and  Con- 
fucious  taught  it  in  a  reversed  form,  'Do  not  unto  others 
what  you  would  not  have  others  do  unto  you.'  And  as 
most  of  us  suffer  more  from  active  unkindness  than  from 
kindness  withheld,  we  must  perforce  admit  the  superior 
practicability  of  the  version  of  Confucius,  although 
Christ's  version  is  superior  ethically  in  demanding  an  active 
assertion  of  good-will,  not  merely  an  abstention  from  ill- 
will." 

Frau  Ursula  had  given  an  imperfect  attention  to  Dr. 
Koenig's  words.  While  he  meandered  on,  she  was  turning 
over  in  her  mind  the  feasibility  of  his  suggestion  to  pro 
vide  Guido  with  the  teachings,  of  Judaism  and  Buddhism. 
She  now  reverted  to  this. 

"As  you  know,"  she  said,  "I  am,  a  Lutheran,  and  I 
confess  that  I  would  rather  see  my  boy  a  Mohammedan 
than  a  Roman  Catholic." 

"Pure  woman !"  Dr.  Koenig  laughingly  commented. 

Frau  Ursula  pouted  prettily.  He  was  so  very  very  old 
that  he  seemed  to  her  a  sort  of  generic  father.  His  age 
made  her  keenly  a  Ware  of  the  youth  that  was  still  in  her, 
with  its  partially  arrested,  partially  diverted  currents. 

"It  is  the  second  time  to-day  that  you  have  called  me 
that,  or  something  like  it,"  she  said.  "Is  it  intended  as 
a  rebuke — or  not?" 

"It  was  meant  to  convey  that,  like  all  women,  you  can 
not  be  fair  because  you  are  a  partisan.'1 

"Ah  !    Are  we  as  bad  as  that  ?    So  much  less  than  men  ?" 

"You  are  less  than  men  in  being  less  cold.     Your  affec- 


CHILDHOOD  103 

tions  range  themselves  on  one  side  or  the  other,  and  your 
emotional  impetus  makes  you  terrible  adversaries." 

She  felt  that  if  the  sting  of  censure  was  not  absent  from 
this  retort,  that  censure  was  at  least  so  delicately  modu 
lated  and  overlaid  as  to  remove  its  sting.  She  smiled. 

"All  you  said  just  now  about  Christianity,  Buddhism  and 
Judaism  seems  to  disprove  what  you  said  the  other  day. 
These  religions,  at  least,  are  synthetizable." 

"Not  in  dogma,  merely  in  ethics,  and  the  term,  I  think, 
when  so  applied,  is  meretricious.  I  chose  rather  to  see 
in  the  identity  of  ethics  the  cumulative  sociological  experi 
ence  of  different  races,  and,  as  the  outcome  is  practically 
the  same,  the  world  thus  obtains  a  code  of  morals  more 
dependable  than  a  code  divinely  inspired,  as  the  Command 
ments  of  Moses  and  of  Christ  purport  to  be.  And  that 
brings  us  back  to  my  contention  that  in  allowing  Guido 
to  permeate  himself  with  Christian  ethics,  you  are  allow 
ing  him  to  get  the  best  at  first-hand." 

"For  a  free-thinker!"  Frau  Ursula  ejaculated. 

"A  free-thinker  is  not  necessarily  an  atheist,  or  a  pagan, 
or  a  heathen,  as  you  seem  to  think,"  Dr.  Koenig  rejoined, 
with  some  heat.  "A  pagan  has  no  belief  worthy  of  being 
termed  a  religious  faith  or  a  metaphysical  system.  He 
has  no  knowledge,  even  of  the  existence  of  religion  as 
such ;  a  free-thinker  is  the  very  reverse ;  he  has  a  thorough 
knowledge  not  of  one  but  of  many  religious  beliefs,  and 
his  reasons  for  rejecting  them  and  the  dogmas  for  which 
they  stand  are  manifold.  But  it  is  by  no  means  precluded 
that  the  free-thinker,  while  rejecting  dogma  and  doctrine, 
may  not  retain  the  kernel  about  which  these  dogmas  gravi 
tate,  and  which  appears  to  him  a  precious  guide  for  human 
conduct,  for  reasons'  which  I  have  indicated  before.  There 
are  those  who  call  me  an  atheist.  I  myself  term  myself 
Monist.  I  am  a  disciple  of  Haeckel,  with  strong  Spencerian 
proclivities." 

Frau  Ursula's  attention  had  wandered  again.  She  had 
no  taste  for  metaphysics  or  religious  speculation.  She 
said,  vaguely: 

"I  wish  my  conscience  were  not  so  troublesome." 

Dr.  Koenig  looked  hard  at  her.     Then  he  said: 

"If  you  feel  th'at  in  allowing  Guido  to  come  in  close 
contact  with  the  Bible  you  would  be  betraying  your  trust, 


io4  THE  HYPHEN 

• 

why  not  do  what  I  suggested  to  you  before?  If  I  had 
my  way,  I  would  have  them  read  *in  school  at  assembly 
alternately  from  the  Old  Testament,  the  New  Testament, 
the  Koran,  the  Vedas  and  from  Confucius.  Such  a  pro 
cedure  would  make  for  tolerance,  for  breadth  of  view, 
and  for  an  unshakable  .conviction  in  the  necessity  for 
ethical  living.  For  what  the  great  religious  teachers  taught 
was  evolved  out  of  the  consciousness  of  racial  tradition 
and  experience  which  had  preceded  them,  if  we  accept  the 
rational  explanation  as  I  do ;  or  from  a  direct  and  de 
liberate  revelation  of  the  Divine  Essence  of  the  Godhead, 
if  we  accept  the  ecclesiastical  belief  in  an  inspired  and 
supernatural  religion,  as  you  do.  In  either  case,  the  neces 
sity  for  acting  in  consonance  with  conscience,  is  very 
plain." 

"I  think,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  "that  I  will  follow  your 
advice." 

"If  you  do,"  said  Dr.  Koenig,  "I  beg  of  you  not  to 
interfere  overmuch  with  Guido's  interpretation  of  what 
he  reads.  Remember  that  the  doctrines  and  literature  of 
the  various  religious  systems  are  the  primers  and  spelling 
exercises  of  the  fundamental  principles  guiding  human 
conduct."  He  paused,  and  then  resumed: 

"Give  a  child  no  religious  training  whatever,  as  you 
proposed  to  do  at  first,  and,  if  his  inclinations  are  gross, 
you  will  make  of  him  a  pagan  who  sees  in  the  appetites 
not  the  means  of  life,  but  its  raison  d'etre.  If  his  proclivi 
ties  are  vicious,  you  will  make  of  him  a  heathen,  who 
sees  in  honesty  nothing  but  an  exigency,  and  who  consents 
to  conform  to  law  and  order  merely  because  he  is  an  op 
portunist,  not  because  he  recognizes  the  existence  and  the 
necessity  of  moral  law.  If  he  inclines  to  idealism,  in  the 
absence  of  a  profound  conviction  that  moral  law  exists 
and  that  conscience  is  not  a  mere  handicap  in  the  struggle 
for  existence,  the  futility  of  life  is  bound  either  to  enrage 
or  to  crush  him  and  to  make  of  him  either  a  misanthrope  or 
a  cynic.  For  cynicism  is  the  unlovely  fruit  of  idealism 
that  has  curdled,  misanthropy  the  result  of  idealism  con 
demned  to  sterility.  In  any  event,  he  will  be  profoundly 
miserable  and  profoundly  helpless." 

"I  cannot  imagine  Guido  either  as  a  sensualist  or  as 
an  oppressor,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  dryly. 


CHILDHOOD  105 

"No!  Although  one  can  never  tell.  Boyhood  is  an  in 
choate,  semi-fluid  -state — I  conceive  Guido  to  be  an  out- 
and-out  idealist.  Fear  of  seeing  him  unhappy  should  be 
as  strong  an  incentive  as  the  fear  of  seeing  him  vicious." 

"Yes,  of  course!  I  will  take  your  advice.  Will  you 
help  me  select  the  books  which  he  is  to  read  ?" 

"I  will  loan  them  to  you,"  said  Dr.  Koenig.  "It  will 
be  a  wonderfully  interesting  experience  to  watch  Guido — 
to  watch  the  evolution  in  him  of  the  ethical  idea.  Is  he 
one  of  those  humble  souls  who  are  so  bewildered  and 
oppressed  by  the  fathomless  magnitude  of  the  spiritual 
and  physical  universe  that  they  cling  all  their  lives  to  the 
religious  primer,  or " 

Frau  Usurla  interrupted  him. 

"I,"  she  remarked,  slyly,  but  without  resentment,  "am 
one  of  those  humble  souls.  I  would  I  were  free  to  make 
him  a  staunch  Lutheran." 

"Pure  woman  again,"  Dr.  Koenig  declared.  "It  is  barely 
possible  that  he  is  not  of  the  stuff  of  which  Lutherans 
are  made." 

"At  any  rate,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  "I  am  going  to  follow 
your  advice,  for  the  simple  reason  that  I  can  see  no  other 
way  out  of  my  dilemma." 

Thus  was  the  Boy  with  a  Political  Destiny  indentured 
to  a  Religious  Synthesis  as  well.  The  one  was  the  in 
evitable  outcome  of  the  other,  as  we  have  seen.  The  sav 
ing  grace  in  allowing  the  lad  to  essay  these  fearsome 
theological  and  political  paths  was  that  he  himself  was 
unconscious  of  the  venture.  It  was  to  him,  therefore,  not 
a.  venture  but  an  adventure,  and  an  adventure,  to  deserve 
its  name,  is  always  worth  its  while. 


CHAPTER  V 

EARLY  in  March  Guido  began  to  improve  rapidly.  The 
waters  of  life  ran  smoothly  and  pleasantly  for  him 
these  days.  Always  he  had  with  him  either  his  idolized 
mother  or  Mrs.  Thornton,  now  firmly  entrenched  in  his  af 
fections.  Hauser,  for  the  time  being,  was  virtually  elimi 
nated  from  Guide's  life. 

For  Hauser  had  decided  that  the  time  was  ripe  once  more 
to  enlarge  the  Anasquoit  Department  Store.  Having  at 
tracted  the  bulk  of  the  middle-class  trade  of  Anasquoit,  it 
was  now  his  ambition  to  attract  as  well  what  in  Anasquoit 
parlance  was  tersely  designated  as  "the  Bismarck  Street 
people." 

Bismarck  Street  was  the  Fifth  Avenue  of  Anasquoit.  The 
Hausers  might  long  since  have  enjoyed  the  comfort  of  an 
entire  house  on  one  of  the  other  streets,  some  of  which  were 
quite  as  shady  and  quiet  as  Bismarck  Street,  but  Hauser 
resolutely  opposed  any  such  change.  The  tiniest  apartment 
— and  the  Hauser  apartment  was  anything  but  tiny — on 
Bismarck  Street,  where  all  the  wealthy  and  near-wealthy 
German-Americans  lived,  was  preferable  to  the  finest  man 
sion  on  one  of  the  other  streets  where  Germans  were 
thrown  in  contact  with  a  mixed  population — Irish,  Nor 
wegian,  Italian  and  American!  Frau  Ursula  had  long  since 
ceased  to  argue  the  point.  She  ground  her  teeth  more  than 
once  in  impotent  rage  at  Hauser's  impossible  narrowness 
and  snobbishness  and  his  Philistine  contempt  for  unmon- 
eyed  people. 

Hauser  had  many  enthusiasms,  for  he  was  by  no  means 
lacking  in  education  and  taste,  but  his  great  enthusiasm  was 
his  business,  and  he  threw  himself  heart  and  soul  into  his 
new  enterprise.  The  two  small  stores,  connecting  with  each 
other  on  the  ground  floor  only,  which  were  literally  packed 
with  goods  of  every  description,  had  been  a  veritable  gold 
mine.  They  were  to  be  discarded  in  May. 

There  had  been  considerable  conjecture  in  Anasquoit  as 

106 


CHILDHOOD  107 

to  the  nature  of  a  handsome  eight-story  building  on  Main 
Street,  the  main  business  thoroughfare  of  the  town,  which 
ran  parallel  with  Bismarck  Street.  This  large  building  was 
growing  up  rapidly,  and  its  origin,  ownership  and  purpose 
were  wrapped  in  mystery.  An  apartment  house  of  such 
dimensions  was  unheard  of  in  Anasquoit.  A  store  of  such 
mammoth  size  seemed  equally  incredible.  But,  as  the  levia 
than  assumed  shape  and  form,  it  became  apparent  that  the 
building  was  indeed  intended  for  a  store.  Wild  rumors  be 
gan  to  circulate  through  the  town.  One  of  the  large  de 
partment  store  owners  of  New  York — Stern  or  Wana- 
maker  belike — was  going  to  invade  Anasquoit,  and  the  store 
was  building  for  them.  So  said  rumor,  and  rumor  stiffened 
into  excitement  when  huge  poster-like  advertisements  began 
to  appear  simultaneously  in  the  local  papers  and  street  cars 
and  on  sign-boards,  which  offered  a  thousand  dollars  in  cash 
to  the  first  person  sending  in  the  name  of  the  owner  of  the 
large  store. 

No  correct  answer  was  received.  A  later  advertisement 
announced  the  identity  of  the  owner  of  the  Leviathan. 
Hauser's  vanity  was  cruelly  punctured,  by  this  miscarriage 
of  public  opinion.  He  was  horribly  chagrined.  Frau  Ur 
sula,  who  had  been  as  much  in  the  dark  as  the  general  pub 
lic,  was  both  hurt  and  frightened. 

"Women  cannot  keep  a  secret  unless  it  is  disreputably 
their  own,"  he  said  sharply,  answering  the  query  in  her 
eyes.  She  put  his  sharp  insolence  down  to  his  mortification 
and  forgave  him.  But  she  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
of  saying  that  he  had  never  yet  failed  to  consult  her  when 
embarking  on  a  new  enterprise.  This  was  the  first  time  he 
had  not  done  so. 

"In  the  early  days  I  needed  your  financial  support,"  he 
replied.  "I  could  then  not  afford  the  luxury  of  surprising 
you."  The  answer  was  anomalous.  The  kindness  of  the 
second  sentence  was  calculated,  deliberately  she  thought,  to 
wipe  away  the  unkindness  of  the  first.  An  angry  retort 
surged  to  her  lips,  calling  for  utterance.  The  Bismarck 
Street  clique  were  snobs,  like  himself,  and  being  snobs 
would  never  deign  to  purchase  their  garments  in  Anasquoit. 
Middle-priced  garments,  appealing  to  men  and  women  who 
appreciated  honest  value,  had  made  his  small  stores  a  suc 
cess.  High-priced  garments,  ranging  in  price  from  fifty  to 


io8  THE  HYPHEN 

4. 

five  hundred  dollars,  would  ruin  him.  This  she  wanted  to 
say  to  him,  but  she  restrained  herself  from  voicing  the 
prophecy.  After  all,  she  told  herself  bitterly,  Mauser's  af 
fairs  were  none  of  hers.  Guido  was  her  one  affair,  her 
one  concern  and  interest.  And  Guido  was  convalescent  and 
Hauser  was  too  busy  to  take  any  notice  of  the  child  or  to 
harass  him. 

Guido  sat  up  thrice  a  day  now.  Sitting  up  necessitated 
mild  exercise  in  the  form  of  walking,  a  few  steps  at  a  time. 
Guido  was  wild  with  delight  the  day  he  was  told  that  he 
might  take  the  long  journey  into  the  parlor.  Of  the  dining 
room  he  had  had  glimpses  while  in  bed,  but  he  had  all  but 
forgotten  how  the  parlor  looked,  and  to  be  able  at  last  to 
make  his  way  into  its  refinements  on  a  tour  conducted  in 
person  was  for  more  thrilling  than  a  vicarious  expedition 
into  darkest  Africa  by  route  of  a  book. 

That  trip  into  the  parlor  was  not  merely  an  adventure,  it 
was  a  ceremony.  He  was  swathed  in  a  loose  wrapper,  so 
ample  that  he  could  wind  it  twice  about  his  torso  and 
limbs.  This  wrapper  was  known  familiarly  as  the  "Polter," 
a  word  which  had  no  individual  significance,  and  whose 
origin  as  a  proper  noun  in  this  connection  was  obscure.  It 
was  made  of  a  soft,  fine  woolen  material,  very  gay,  almost 
garish  in  coloring.  The  most  fantastic  of  Persian  designs, 
veritable  Hasheesh  dreams,  was  indicated  by  its  purple 
scrolls  and  orange  panels  and  crimson  ringlets,  and  it  was 
lined  with  brocaded  silk  of  a  delicated  lavender.  Guido 
loved  the  "Polter"  Whenever  it  reappeared  from  the  cedar 
chest,  his  health  was  engaged  in  ascending  toward  the  nor 
mal  point.  So  he  had  come  to  look  upon  it  as  a  token  of 
rejuvenation,  of  a  renewed  lease  upon  life  and  health. 

Then,  too,  raiment  so  Orientally  luxuriant  in  color  and 
in  design  was  a  prodigious  aid  to  the  imagination.  When 
he  wore  it  with  the  woolen  side  turned  out,  he  could  play 
at  being  anything  from  Mustapha,  the  Sultan's  favorite 
son,  to  Sinbad  the  Sailor.  When  he  wore  the  lavender  silk 
lining  turned  out,  he  could  imagine  himself  to  be  Don  Car 
los,  the  unhappy  son  of  Philip  the  Second,  of  whom  Guido 
had  read  in  Schiller's  tragedy,  or  a  turbaned  Indian  prince, 
wearing  about  his  neck  a  rope  of  a  thousand  pearls,  each 
worth  a  king's  ransom. 

One  afternoon,   at  his  request,  his  mother   and   Mrs. 


CHILDHOOD  109 

Thornton  piloted  him  to  the  book-case,  that  vast,  unex 
plored  territory  for  which  he  was  yearning  and  repining. 
His  mother  pulled  down  for  him  some  volumes  which  he 
was  anxious  to  inspect,  Lessing  and  Herder.  Goethe  and 
Heine  were  passed  over.  They  were  ground  which  must 
not  be  trespassed  upon  for  the  present.  A  large  volume  of 
Shakespeare  was  extricated  and  laid  on  a  table.  The  pic 
tures  might  afford  him  amusement,  his  mother  said.  Then 
Mrs.  Thornton  said  something  to  his  mother  in  an  under 
tone  regarding  the  text. 

Guido,  suspecting  the  nature  of  Mrs.  Thornton's  remark, 
demanded  to  be  told  whether  Shakespeare  also  was  for 
bidden  fruit. 

"Why  no,  you  may  read  Shakespeare,  if  you  wish,"  Frau 
Ursula  replied.  She  knew,  none  better,  that  English  had 
not  yet  become  second  nature  to  him.  He  might  delve  into 
the  unexpurgated  Shakespearian  text  with  impunity.  He 
would  comprehend  its  salacities  as  little  as  its  beauties. 

Having  settled  Guido  comfortably  on  the  couch,  with 
pillows  at  his  back  and  a  cover  over  his  feet,  Mrs.  Thornton 
and  his  mother  left  him.  Both  had  errands  to  attend  to. 

Guido,  full  of  the  joy  of  a  long-coveted  book  open  before 
him,  began  turning  over  the  pages  of  the  huge  Shakespeare. 
It  did  not  take  him  very  long  to  discover  that  while  he 
understood  some  of  the  individual  words,  it  was  utterly  im 
possible  for  him  to  comprehend  their  group-meanings. 

He  sat  very  still  and  for  at  least  ten  minutes  turned  this 
over  in  his  mind.  He  wondered  whether  his  intelligence 
or  his  vocabulary  was  at  fault.  He  could  not  conceive  him 
self  to  be  an  imbecile  since  he  had  read  and  understood 
some  of  the  great  German  classics.  If  merely  his  imper 
fect  knowledge  of  English  was  at  fault,  there  was  some 
hope.  Or,  perhaps  the  English  classics  were  less  readily 
assimilable  than  the  German. 

A  sudden  inspiration  came  to  him.  He  would  question 
Otto  concerning  literary  tastes  of  Bob  Hastings,  the  only 
"real"  American  boy  of  whom  he  had  knowledge.  If  Bob 
Hastings  read  Shakespeare  or  some  other  English  classic 
as  he  read  Schiller,  then,  undoubtedly,  it  was  merely  his 
meager  English  vocabulary  that  disqualified  him. 

The  poor  child  took  it  for  granted  that  all  little  boys  of 
eleven  read  the  classics  of  their  native  tongue.  Otto  was 


i  io  THE  HYPHEN 

an  exception.  But  then,  as  Guido  clearly  perceived  in  spite 
of  his  affection  for  his  friend,  Otto  was  a  young  savage. 
Guido,  with  the  curious  faith  of  childhood  in  the  Unseen 
and  the  Unknown,  was  certain  that  "American"  boys  were 
different.  He  had  no  very  lucid  notion  as  the  precise  nature 
of  this  difference,  but  he  felt  certain  that  it  embraced  an  in 
timate  knowledge  of  and  love  for  the  English  classics. 

He  was  so  unhappy  at  his  lack  of  mastery  of  English,  that 
instead  of  reading,  or  dreaming,  he  began  to  knit.  Otto  had 
never  seen  Guido  knit.  Some  instinct  warned  him  that  his 
proficiency  in  this  domestic  art  would  not  raise  the  tempera 
ture  of  Otto's  esteem  for  himself.  Therefore,  discreetly, 
his  knitting  had  always  been  tucked  out  of  sight  before  half 
past  three. 

To-day  Guido  forgot,  simply  forgot,  to  obliterate  the  evi 
dences  of  his  contemptible  activity.  Otto,  roaring  like  a 
young  bull,  entered  the  room,  and  perceiving  his  friend's 
occupation,  fell  into  a  deadly  and  for  him  unearthly,  silence. 

"By  Jinks,"  he  exclaimed,  when  the  power  of  speech  and 
of  noise  had  returned  to  him,  "you  look  like  the  Sultan  of 
Sulu  and  you're  knitting,  like  an  old  woman!  You're  a 
sissy.  That's  what.  Knitting.  Pfui!  You  make  me  sick !" 

Ordinarily  Guido's  impulse  would  have  been  to  make  the 
obvious  retort — that  Otto  made  him  quite  as  sick  as  he  made 
Otto — but,  as  he  desired  to  obtain  certain  information  from 
Otto,  he  chose  diplomacy  rather  than  vigor  as  the  instru 
ment  of  chastisement. 

"What's  good  enough  for  an  officer  in  a  crack  German 
regiment  is  good  enough  for  me,"  he  rejoined. 

"Ah — g'wan,  what  d'you  take  me  for?  D'you  think  I'll 
believe  that?"  Otto  demanded.  But  he  spoke  without 
conviction.  A  crack  German  regiment  was  not  to  be  men 
tioned  lightly,  even  by  such  a  renegade  as  Guido.  Besides 
Guido's  tranquillity  was  disconcerting.  It  argued  that  he 
was  speaking  the  truth. 

"It  is  true,  nevertheless,"  said  Guido,  purling  the  last 
stitch  on  the  needle  with  great  deliberation. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  Otto  repeated,  his  unbelief  no  greater 
than  before. 

"My  mother  told  me  so,"  said  Guido  with  a  gentleness 
that,  in  view  of  the  upheaval  which  Otto's  most  sanctified 
beliefs  were  undergoing,  with  little  short  of  cruel. 


CHILDHOOD  in 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Otto,  with  utmost  feebleness. 

Guido  raised  his  eye-brows,  a  habit  he  had  of  expressing 
disdain  or  disapproval.  It  was  a  gesture  which  never  failed 
to  infuriate  Otto.  To-day  it  acted  upon  him  like  a  barb. 

"I  tell  you  what,"  he  said,  "you'll  be  wearing  a  muff  next." 

"One  carries  a  muff,  one  doesn't  wear  it,"  Guido  com 
mented,  dispassionately.  "And  if  I  did,  I  should  only  be 
following  the  most  illustrious  example  in  the  world."  His 
tongue  stumbled  a  little  against  the  string  of  soft  syllables 
in  "illustrious,"  but  he  managed  to  flounder  through  them 
without  coming  perceptibly  to  grief. 

"Whom  d'you  mean?"  Otto  growled. 

"I  mean  the  Kaiser." 

"Huh?    What  d'you  take  me  for?    A  poor  simp?" 

Guido's  eye-brows  again  shifted  upward. 

"Since  when  d'you  consider  the  Kaiser  such  a  big  gun?" 
sneered  Otto.  "I  thought  you  had  no  use  for  kings  and 
queens." 

It  was  a  clever  feint,  and  for  a  moment  Guido  was  stag 
gered. 

"I  called  him  that  to  please  you,"  he  said,  finally,  deftly 
covering  his  political  inconsistency.  "Besides,  I  don't  mind 
the  Kaiser.  I  rather  like  him." 

"Oh,  you  do,  do  you?  Well,  I  bet  you  a  ride  in  the 
carrousel  at  the  next  school  picnic  that  the  Kaiser  doesn't 
wear — carry — a  muff." 

Guido  smiled  superiorly. 

"If  you  please,  Otto,"  he  said,  politely,  "hand  me  that 
post-card  album  from  the  what-not,  will  you?" 

Otto  knew  from  Guido's  maddening  smile  that  refutation 
of  his  denial  lurked  between  the  covers  of  Guido's  album. 
How  he  hated  Guido  at  the  moment !  How  he  hated  the  al 
bum  !  How  he  hated  the  Kaiser !  How  he  hated  muffs  and 
the  skins  they  were  made  of!  How  he  would  have  liked 
to  pummel  that  superior  serenity  out  of  Guido,  sore  spine 
or  no  sore  spine.  Otto  reflected,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
that  a  sore  spine  was  a  horrible  unsportsmanlike  thing  to 
possess.  It  was  almost  as  bad  as  a  secreted  weapon,  or  a 
blow  below  the  solar  plexus.  Fuming  inwardly,  he  handed 
Guido  the  album. 

Guido,  still  supremely  aloof  and  detached,  opened  the 
book  and  indicating  a  certain  card,  handed  the  album  back 


H2  THE  HYPHEN 

to  Otto,  who,  without  as  much  as  glancing  at  the  card,  with 
out  as  much  as  troubling  to  close  the  album,  flung  it  wildly 
at  Guide's  head.  Guido's  head,  at  least,  thank  heaven  for 
it,  had  nothing  the  matter  with  it.  Guido  ducked.  The  al 
bum  shot  over  his  head  into  the  book-case,  shattering  to 
atoms  the  glass  door. 

"There !"  said  Guido  in  a  tone  of  superb  satisfaction  and 
laughed.  Otto,  sad  to  relate,  used  an  unprintable  word,  and 
then,  caught  in  the  backwater  of  his  unreasonable  temper, 
his  fury  spent,  giggled. 

The  unprintable  word,  Guido's  laugh  and  Otto's  giggle 
tripped  so  closely  upon  each  other's  heels  as  to  be  almost 
indistinguishable.  The  trio  was  still  in  process  of  disin 
tegration  when  the  door  opened  and  Dr.  Koenig  stood  be 
fore  the  gaping  boys.  He  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 

"And  what  have  you  been  quarreling  about,  my  fine 
lads?"  he  inquired. 

"About  the  Kaiser's  muff,  Herr  Doktor,"  Guido  said,  re 
gaining  his  composure. 

"The  Kaiser's  muff !"  the  old  physician  burst  into  a  roar 
of  laughter.  "Well,  upon  my  word — often,  often  have  I 
heard  people  quarrel  about  the  Kaiser's  beard,  but  about  his 
muff — never !" 

Dr.  Koenig  alluded  not  to  the  Kaiser's  mustache,  the  hir 
sute  adornment  destined  within  a  decade  to  be  the  mark  of 
so  much  ridicule  and  vituperation,  but  to  the  German  idiom 
which  counts  a  quarrel  about  the  Kaiser's  beard  to  be  a 
quarrel  about  less  than  nothing. 

The  boys  sat  in  silence,  with  tingling  ears,  while  the  Doc 
tor's  laughter  gradually  subsided.  A  grave,  almost  a  solemn 
mood  succeeded  his  merriment. 

"My  lads,"  he  said,  "take  an  old  man's  advice.  Quarrel 
with  kings  and  emperors  all  you  wish;  but  never,  never 
quarrel  about  them  or  for  them.  They  are  mischief-makers. 
Avoid  them  and  everything  pertaining  to  them  and  to  their 
brood  as  fervently  as  you  avoid  the  devil." 

"But,"  Otto  spoke  up  resolutely,  "my  farder  says  this 
Kaiser  is  as  fine  a  man  as  ever  sat  on  a  throne." 

"High  praise,  indeed!"  snorted  Dr.  Koenig.  "Guido,  how 
do  you  feel  about  this?" 

"This — this  Kaiser?  Or  kings  and  queens  in  general?" 
quoth  Guido,  calmly  analytical.  "I  have  no  use  for  kings 


CHILDHOOD  113 

and  queens — ich  mag  sie  nicht  leiden — but  this  Kaiser,  he 
seems  very  kind  and  just  and  honest,  and  truly,  Herr 
Doktor,  I  think  I  like  him  so  well,  sir,  that  I  wish  he'd  been 
a  commoner  in  a  country  like  ours,  where  he  might  have 
proven  his  mettle  instead  of  having  folks  take  him  on  faith." 

Dr.  Koenig  stared  at  Guido  in  astonishment.  Mentally 
he  ejaculated,  "Eleven  years!  Synthetic  heritage  or  syn 
thetic  development  or  both?  Where  would  this  lead  to? 
A  mere  hodge-podge?  Rank  mugwumpism?  Or  was  the 
boy  a  synthetizer  in  embryo  ?  His  democracy  seemed  safe 
enough — "wish  he  had  been  born  in  a  country  like  ours" — 
nothing  equivocable  or  uncertain  in  that,  surely.  And  as 
there  was  nothing  to  teach  the  lad  in  that  particular,  the 
excellent  man  set  himself  the  task  of  disrobing  William — 
whose  sobriquet  of  "The  Damned"  had  not  yet  been  earned 
— of  the  glory  in  which  this  one  small  boy  had  enmeshed 
him. 

"The  Kaiser,  when  he  came  to  the  throne,  was  known 
throughout  Europe  and  the  United  States  as  the  war-lord," 
he  began. 

"Yes,"  Otto  eagerly  interrupted  him,  "but  no  one  calls 
him  that  now.  My  farder  says  he's  made  good.  My 
farder  says  he's  a  prince  of  peace — ein  Friedensfuerst — . 
My  farder  says  he  is  finishing  the  great  work  that  Bismarck 
began.  My  farder " 

"Never  mind  your  father,"  the  old  physician  cried,  testily. 
Otto's  mouth  opened  wide  in  amazement.  "Think  for  your 
self,  boy !" 

He  turned  to  Guido. 

"Let  me  tell  you  a  little  about  this  great  man  whom  you 
would  generously  make  a  native-born  American  so  that  he 
might  prove  his  sterling  worth.  Among  the  educated  classes 
of  the  Fatherland  he  is  not  held  in  high  esteem.  The 
glamour  and  the  glitter  of  his  title  may  impose  upon  German- 
Americans,  but  in  Germany  they  do  not  take  him  very  seri 
ously.  Some  scorn  him  as  an  amateur  statesman ;  some  de 
spise  him  as  an  amateur  painter;  some  dislike  him  because 
his  verses  are  so  bad — though  truth  to  tell,  they  are  infinitely 
better  than  those  of  his  ancestor,  Frederick  the  Great!" 

Here  the  incorrigible  Otto  made  a  sound  preparatory  to 
sidling  into  the  conversation  again  with  a  new  variation  of 
his  everlasting  "my  farder"  theme. 


ii4  THE  HYPHEN 

"Keep  still,  Otto,"  said  Guido,  sharply.  "I  don't  see,  Herr 
Doktor,  why  a  man  should  be  held  cheap  because  he  can  do 
many  things  even  if  he  is  a  Kaiser." 

"He  does  them  so  badly !"  cried  Dr.  Koenig.  "Let  a  man 
stick  to  one  thing  and  do  it  well." 

"It  seems,  though,  as  if  he  had  done  the  one  thing  which 
is  his  business  very  well,  indeed,  doesn't  it,  sir?"  the  boy 
inquired. 

"And  what  particular  thing  is  his  business,  can  you  tell 
me?"  Dr.  Koenig  inquired,  curiously. 

"To  rule,  of  course,"  Guido  replied. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  Dr.  Koenig  replied.  "His  particular 
business  is  the  Army  and  Navy,  but  to  that  he  has  attended 
very  well  indeed — much,  much  too  well,  I  am  afraid." 

"My  farder  says,"  Otto  launched  forth  again,  only  to  be 
silenced  by  a  joint  exclamation  from  the  Doctor  and  from 
Guido.  From  the  fray  of  voices  Otto's  hurtling  forth  of 
"Friedensfuerst"  rose  triumphant  and  clear. 

Dr.  Koenig  eyed  Otto  angrily.  Herr  Baumgarten,  Otto  s 
father,  and  the  old  physician  had  quarreled  violently  some 
years  before  in  the  card  room  of  the  Deutsche  Verein.  The 
quarrel  was  a  political  one,  and  being  political,  was  bitter, 
and  the  two  gentlemen  had  become  so  incensed  that  if  others 
had  not  intervened  the  affair  might  have  eventualized  in 
blows.  The  affair  was  one  of  the  historical  episodes  of 
the  town.  Everybody  knew  of  the  ancient  enmity  between 
Herr  Baumgarten  and  Dr.  Koenig.  Otto  had  heard  of  it,  of 
course.  So  had  Guido.  Hence  Otto's  truculence  and  Dr. 
Koenig's  resentment  of  Otto's  juvenile  impudence  in  push 
ing  his  father  into  the  debate  so  persistently. 

"It  is  true,"  said  Dr.  Koenig,  "that  the  world  at  present 
unites  in  acclaiming  him  as  a  'peace  lord.'  But  what  does 
that  signify?  It  signifies  a  sinister  power  to  be  the  oppo 
site — to  be  a  war-lord — and — Guido,  do  you  remember  the 
story  of  Little  Red  Riding  Hood?" 

"Of  course,"  Guido  replied,  shortly,  disgusted  at  the  sud 
den  decline  of  the  conversation  into  childish  channels. 

"And  do  you  remember  how  the  Wolf  finally  contrived  to 
catch  and  eat  Little  Red  Riding  Hood  ?" 

"By  disguising  himself  as  her  grandmother,"  Guido  re 
plied,  vaguely  aware  that  the  topic  was  not  as  juvenile  as 
he  had  supposed. 


CHILDHOOD  115 

"Exactly;  and  Grandmother  Friedensfuerst  will  go  on 
flattering  and  cozening  the  world  until  she  holds  the  Red 
Riding  Hood  gullibles  well  within  reach  of  her  hand !  Bah ! 
Enough  of  this."  Dr.  Koenig  rose  abruptly,  unwilling  to  be 
dragged  into  a  new  argument  with  a  scion  of  the  house  of 
Baumgarten. 

"Guido,  your  mother  is  worrying  about  your  blood 
pressure.  I  cannot  take  it  now.  It  is  bound  to  be  above 
normal,"  said  Dr.  Koenig.  His  own  certainly  was,  for  his 
irritation  produced  by  Otto's  raw  insistence  was  savage. 
"I'll  look  in  to-morrow  morning.  Good-afternoon,  boys,  and 
thank  heaven  fasting  on  your  knees  that  you're  American- 
born." 

Guido,  it  will  be  remembered,  had  curbed  his  temper  in 
the  argument  with  Otto  about  the  Kaiser's  muff  from  no 
high  ethical  motive  but  because  he  desired  to  obtain  certain 
information  from  his  friend.  Thus  does  diplomacy  wait  on 
morality. 

"Say,  Otto,"  he  said,  abruptly,  after  the  Doctor  was  gone, 
"you  never  say  anything  about  Bob  Hastings  any  more." 

Otto  giggled.  Otto's  giggle  was  as  easily  produced  as 
any  little  girl's.  So  were  his  tears.  A  strange  compound 
was  Otto — of  kindness  and  surliness,  of  coarseness  and 
fineness,  of  roughness  and  delicacy.  Both  of  the  boys  had 
entirely  forgotten  their  quarrel.  Now  that  they  had  had 
their  little  daily  fracas  they  were  excellent  friends  again. 
They  were  like  a  couple  of  puppies,  who,  on  meeting,  yap 
and  snarl  and  bite  at  each  other  merely  from  exuberance  of 
youthful  animal  spirits. 

Otto  concluded  his  giggle,  and  announced: 

"There  ain't  nothing  to  tell.  Bob  Hastings  left  school 
three  weeks  ago.  His  farder  was  sent  out  West  to  Mis 
souri." 

A  strange  sense  of  anger  welled  up  in  Guido  s  heart.  Had 
he  quelled  his  temper  only  to  be  thus  disappointed  ?  He  felt 
quite  indignant  with  Otto,  who,  after  all,  was  as  innocent 
as  himself  in  regard  to  Bob  Hastings'  removal. 

"He  was  a  queer  kid,"  Otto  volunteered  after  a  moment. 
"There  is  some  excuse  for  you,  readin'  and  readin'  and 
readin',  'cause  you  gotta  sore  spine  and  can't  be  a  real  boy 
on  that  account."  Here  Guido  choked  back  a  quick  flurry 
of  temper.  "But  him,"  Otto  continued,  oblivious  of  the 


n6  THE  HYPHEN 

tempest  he  had  aroused,  "him's  a  husky.  Why,  he  can  beat 
all  of  us,  even  me,  at  wrestling  and  skatin'  and  things.  And 
him  forever  readin'  like  you.  Teacher  took  away  a  book 
he  was  readin'  under  the  desk  one  day." 

"What  was  the  book  ?"  Guido  inquired,  eagerly. 

"A  vollum  of  Dickens.  Teacher  wouldn't  give  it  back  to 
Bob.  Bob  carried  on  something  awful.  Next  day  Bob's 
farder  came  in  and  explained  to  teacher  how  the  vollum  was 
one  of  a  set.  An'  got  it  back." 

"That  was  oretty  fine  of  Bob  to  tell  his  father,"  Guido 
remarked. 

"Well,  I  guess  Bob  figgered  it  out  this  way.  Sooner  or 
later  his  farder  was  bound  to  find  out  the  vollum  was  gone, 
and  then  he'd  get  a  licking.  So  I  guess  Bob  thought  he'd 
rather  take  the  licking  right  off  and  get  it  off  his  chest." 

"Did  his  father  lick  him?"  Guido  inquired,  in  an  awe 
struck  voice.  Lickings  were  one  of  the  experiences  of  life 
which  he  had  missed. 

"Nope.  At  least  he  said  not.  Said  his  farder  never 
licked  him.  Said  his  farder  wasn't  a  brute.  We  kids  didn't 
believe  him." 

"Was  he  caught  again  reading  under  the  desk?" 

"Sure.  Most  every  week.  Sometimes  twiced  a  week. 
The  boy  what  sat  next  to  him  said  he  read  that  way  all 
the  time." 

"What  did  he  read?" 

"Oh,  crazy  stuff — stuff  you'd  read  if  you  were  an  Ameri 
can.  Walter  Scott,  and  Cooper  and  Tales  from  Shake 
speare." 

Guido  drew  a  deep  breath,  a  breath  so  deep  that  it 
whistled.  He  was  bitten  with  black  despair,  because  this 
American  boy  who  read  Dickens  and  Scott  and  Lamb's 
Tales  had  passed  beyond  his  ken.  There  burned  in  him  a 
deep  resentment  against  fate  for  treating  him  so  scurvily. 
Was  it  always  to  be  like  this  ?  Was  he,  like  Tantalus,  to  be 
condemned  always  to  be  within  hailing  distance  of  Ameri 
cans,  that  interesting  and  superior  species,  and  never  to 
come  into  contact  with  them?  Then  he  remembered  Mrs. 
Thornton  and  her  Bible  and  his  resentment  fell  away. 

And  although  he  never  knew  it,  and  never  crossed  our 


CHILDHOOD  117 

hero's  path  again,  the  little  American  boy  who  had  read 
Dickens  under  his  desk  because  one  of  the  traditions  and 
standards  of  Guido's  amazing  childhood.  He  was  one  of 
the  missed  opportunities  of  Guido's  life.  And  as  such  he 
was  never  forgotten. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ONE  day,  perhaps  a  fortnight  later,  Frau  Ursula  called 
again  at  Dr.  Koenig's  office. 

"Well,"  she  said,  entering  with  her  usual  brisk  air,  "it  has 
happened." 

"What  has  happened  ?  My  dear  lady,  you  alarm  me,  your 
look  is  so  fateful." 

"Guido  has  asked  to  go  to  Sunday  school  as  soon  as  he 
is  up  and  about." 

"Oh — is  that  all!"  Dr.  Koenig  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"Well,  if  his  spiritual  blood  requires  the  iron  of  religion,  it 
is  well  that  he  should  have  it.  Or  is  it  the  gold  of  religion  ? 
Gold,  let  us  say,  for  with  no  other  mineral  are  so  many 
alloys  used  as  with  gold ;  also,  no  other  mineral  is  counter 
feited  so  often.  With  what  particular  alloy  does  he  chose 
to  take  the  mineral  ?" 

"With  the  Lutheran  alloy,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  speaking 
with  great  satisfaction.  "You  see,  after  all,  he  may  be  of 
the  stuff  of  which  Lutherans  are  made." 

Dr.  Koenig  laughed : 

"Not  so  fast,  not  so  fast,"  he  said.  "Because  we  are 
down  with  measles  at  eleven,  it  does  not  follow  that  we  will 
escape  the  scarlet  fever  at  eighteen." 

Frau  Ursula  smiled  wryly.  The  suggestion  of  a  possible 
change  displeased  her.  Suddenly  she  perceived  Dr.  Koe 
nig's  allusion,  which,  in  her  preoccupation,  had  at  first  es 
caped  her.  She  smiled  amusedly,  for  a  long  time,  without, 
however,  laughing  aloud.  She  seemed  to  taste  the  flavor  of 
that  allusion  lingeringly,  as  if  it  were  a  material  thing.  She 
accused  Dr.  Koenig  of  secretly  sharing  her  aversion  for  the 
Catholic  church.  He  disavowed  this,  feigned  astonishment 
and  pretended  there  had  been  no  ulterior  or  hidden  mean 
ing  in  his  allusion.  They  bantered  each  other  for  a  little 
while.  Then  he  inquired  to  which  church  Guido  would 
wish  to  go  for  his  Sunday  school. 

tit 


CHILDHOOD  119 

"To  Pastor  Marlow's  church — Otto  goes  there,  top." 

"It's  a  German  church,"  said  Dr.  Koenig,  frowning. 
And  then,  vehemently:  "It's  a  mistake.  German  school, 
German  newspaper,  German  church." 

"You  read  a  German  newspaper  yourself,"  said  Frau 
Ursula. 

"So  I  do.  But  I  read  an  English  newspaper  as  well. 
Anyhow,  it's  a  mistake — this  herding  together  on  American 
soil  of  persons  of  one  nationality.  The  Germans  do  it, 
the  Italians  do  it,  the  Irish  do  it,  the  Norwegians  do  it. 
Everybody  does  it.  How  are  we  to  be  a  truly  unified 
nation  if  all  these  separate  alien  complexes  exist  in  our 
midst?" 

"If  these  complexes,  as  you  call  them,  are  not  political 
complexes,  where  is  the  harm?" 

"The  harm  is  potential,"  Dr.  Koenig  replied,  with  the 
quick  emphasis  of  a  man  who  is  full  of  his  subject.  "In 
normal  times  they  work  no  mischief.  But  allow  a  matter 
of  vital  moment  to  arise — say,  a  war  with  Germany,  and 
you'll  see  quickly  enough  where  the  harm  is." 

"But  why  should  we  go  to  war  with  Germany?"  Frau 
Ursula  inquired,  smiling  incredulously. 

Dr.  Koenig  gently  wagged  his  head  from  one  side  to  the 
other  a  few  times,  a  habit  he  had  when  interrupted  in  a 
subject  which  to  him  was  of  paramount  interest. 

"I  am,  of  course,  taking  a  purely  hypothetical  case,"  he 
said,  rebukingly.  "In  such  a  case  the  German  complex, 
because  of  its  strong  adhesive  qualities,  would  probably 
stand  as  one.  So,  probably,  would  the  Norwegian,  the 
Irish,  the  Italian  complexes,  because  the  individual  mem 
bers  are  imperfectly  Americanized." 

"I  think  you  are  taking  a  severe  view,"  said  Frau 
Ursula.  "The  first  generation  on  this  soil,  the  generation 
that  emigrated,  cannot  become  entirely  assimilated,  if  by 
assimilation  you  mean  a  complete  discarding  of  inherited 
national  traits  and  of  the  mother  tongue.  But  you  and 
I,  Dr.  Koenig,  are  excellent  Americans  at  heart,  although 
the  first  sentence  we  utter  in  English  betrays  our  nation 
ality." 

"That,"  the  old*  man  growled,  "is  precisely  why  I  say 
that  this  flocking  together  of  aliens  is  a  mistake.  If  you 
and  I  had  lived  among  native-born  Americans  ever  since 


120  THE  HYPHEN 

coming  to  this  country,  our  English  would  be  not  perfect, 
perhaps,  but  more  fluent  and  ready." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  do  it?"  Frau  Ursula  demanded, 
with  a  smile  which  was  almost  flippant. 

"Because,  like  yourself,  and  like  other  weak  and  foolish 
people,  I  followed  the  line  of  least  resistance,"  the  old 
man  roared,  scowling. 

His  visitor  laughed. 

"Weak  and  foolish !"  she  said.  "I  wonder,  Herr  Doktor, 
if  we  really  deserve  that!  You  know,  this  business  of 
leaving  one's  own  country  and  breaking  with  one's  cus 
toms,  race,  language,  everything  familiar,  is  a  tremendous 
upheaval,  a  fearful  uprooting.  It's  the  difference  in  lan 
guage  that  comes  hardest,  and  you  know  it.  Not  all  men 
and  women  are  born  linguists.  I  think,  on  the  whole,  you 
and  I  and  many  others  like  us  have  become  Americanized 
in  all  the  vital  matters." 

"What  do  you  call  vital  matters?"  the  old  physician 
aked,  curiously. 

"You  mean,  do  you  not?  what  does  a  woman  call  'vital 
matters  ?'  "  Frau  Ursula  demanded,  roguishly. 

"My  dear  lady,"  he  expostulated,  flushing. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  she  said,  coolly,  ignoring  his  exclama 
tion.  "I  think  what  men  value  most  are  the  obvious  things, 
universal  and  equal  manhood  suffrage,  our  legislative  sys 
tem,  an  independent  judiciary,  freedom  of  speech  and  of 
the  press,  separation  of  church  and  state." 

"I  did  not  know,"  Dr.  Koenig  said,  admiringly,  "that 
you  had  so  clear  a  comprehension  of  what  America  stands 
for,  or,  having  it,  valued  it  so  highly." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  do  value  it  so  highly,"  said  Frau 
Ursula,  with  a  grave  smile.  "I  was  reciting  a  man's  point 
of  view.  Now  for  the  woman's." 

"Ah!"  Dr.  Koenig  exclaimed,  impetuously,  "you  are  a 
very  wonderful  woman,  and  your  husband  is  a  fortunate 
man." 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  him  so,"  said  Frau  Ursula.  She 
regretted  her  words  immediately,  and  flushed  furiously. 

Dr.  Koenig  glanced  at  her  sharply,  wondering  whether 
she  had  spoken  in  jest  or  in  earnest.  If  not  in  jest,  then 
what  construction  was  he  to  put  upon  her  words  ?  He  was 
perplexed,  and  he  waited  a  moment  to  give  her  a  chance 


CHILDHOOD  121 

to  retract  with  some  slight  phrase,  as  "I  was  joking,  of 
course !"  but  she  said  nothing,  and  looked  so  uncomfortable 
and  ill  at  ease  that,  to  help  her  along,  he  finally  said : 

"You  were  going  to  favor  me  with  the  woman's  valua 
tion  of  America." 

"So  I  was,"  she  said,  and  recovered  her  composure  sur 
prisingly.  "The  little  things  of  life,  the  delicate  shades, 
the  fine  nuances,  mean  more  to  a  woman  than  to  a  man. 
That  is  why  one  great  writer  has  said  that  all  women  are 
aristocrats.  By  that  token  Europe  and  not  America  would 
be  the  ideal  homing-place  for  women.  But  I  conceive 
aristocracy  to  mean  not  snobbishness  and  exclusiveness  so 
much  as  high  standards  and  the  ability  to  live  up  to  them ; 
and  judged  by  that,  the  women  of  America  have  the 
immeasurable  advantage  over  the  women  of  Europe." 

"What  sort  of  standards  are  you  speaking  of,"  Dr. 
Koenig  inquired,  "material,  mental,  moral?" 

"All  three.  They  merge.  It  is  ridiculous  to  speak  of 
one  standard  as  existing  independently  of  the  other  two." 

"Usually,"  said  Dr.  Koenig,  tossing  forward  and  back 
ward  in  his  swivel-chair,  "usually  high  material  standards 
are  supposed  to  be  subversive  of  high  spiritual  standards, 
the  latter  embracing  the  moral  and  mental  elements." 

"I  was  not  speaking  of  love  of  luxury  in  eating  and  in 
dress,"  she  replied.  "I  was  speaking  of  decency  in  living, 
in  good,  palatable  food,  in  pretty  clothes,  and  of  the  aston 
ishing  love  of  personal  cleanliness  amounting  almost  to  a 
mania  which  exists  among  Americans  and  in  American 
homes.  That  love  of  cleanliness,  you  know,  has  become 
second  nature  in  America.  It  has  become  instinctive,  or, 
perhaps,  was  instinctive  to  begin  with,  and  it  extends  to 
and  merges  with  the  American  single  standard  of  per 
sonal  morality." 

"That  is  true,  that  is  very  true,"  Dr.  Koenig  exclaimed, 
in  a  tone  of  hearty  appreciation. 

"And  then — freedom!  And  courtesy!  A  week  before 
we  left  Berlin  I  went  out  one  morning  to  do  my  marketing. 
It  was  a  rainy  morning,  and  I  was  very  plainly  dressed. 
As  I  returned  from  market,  my  basket  upon  my  arm,  I  was 
elbowed  off  the  sidewalk  by  a  young  officer  who  was  in  a 
hurry  to  pass  me.  Without  exaggeration,  he  forced  me 
to  step  into  the  gutter  in  which  at  least  an  inch  of  water 


122  THE  HYPHEN 

was  standing.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  would  have 
occurred  if  my  husband  had  happened  to  be  with  me  and 
had  dared  to  resent  the  young  officer's  insolence." 

Dr.  Koenig  nodded. 

"Zabern,"  he  said,  laconically.  "No,  decidedly,  I  shall 
never  return  to  Germany,  not  even  for  a  visit.  Never." 

Frau  Ursula's  interview  with  Dr.  Koenig  had  produced 
in  her  a  strange  medley  of  emotions  and  sentiments.  She 
was  intensely  grateful  to  him  for  his  sincere  interest  in 
Guido.  She  thought  it  providential  that  the  old  physician 
had  known  the  lad's  grandfather.  It  was  her  conviction 
that  a  boy,  to  develop  properly,  needed  a  man's  hand.  She 
had  a  horror  that  Guido,  with  a  woman-built  character, 
might  become  an  undesirable.  A  boy's  mentality  needs  to 
be  man-tailored,  and  Dr.  Koenig,  both  for  the  sake  of  his 
former  fellow-revolutionist  and  from  interest  in  the  Syn 
thetic  Experiment  could  now  be  relied  upon  to  keep  an  eye 
on  Guido,  humanly  as  well  as  medically,  and,  if  necessary, 
to  take  a  hand  in  curbing,  moderating  or  stimulating  the 
lad  in  a  thousand  and  one  ways. 

The  relief  afforded  her  by  this  division  of  responsibility 
was  enormous.  She  was  essentially  a  feminine  woman 
and  tended  to  turn  for  support  and  guidance  to  the  allegedly 
superior  acumen  and  strength  of  man.  She  had  often 
suspected  that  the  strength  of  mind  she  had  developed  in 
dealing  with  the  tremendous  problems  involved  in  the  up 
bringing  of  Guido  in  every  imaginable  way  was  a  purely 
factitious  strength.  She  mistrusted  it.  She  even  despised 
it.  She  told  herself  often  and  often,  after  taking  some 
momentous  step  touching  Guido,  that  she  was  merely  acting 
a  part.  Nor  was  the  element  of  fear  absent  in  this  curious 
assemblage  of  feelings.  She  wondered  how  long  she  would 
be  able  to  keep  up  the  sublime  farce. 

It  was  part  of  the  sublime  farce  that  Dr.  Koenig's  help 
fulness  merely  whetted  her  appetite  for  the  protective  so 
ciety  of  the  male.  Dr.  Koenig's  rambling  old  house  stood 
at  the  junction  of  Tamarack  and  Bismarck  Street,  a 
neighborhood  which  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  had  been 
the  last  word  of  fashion,  but  which  was  fast  losing  its 
character  of  Quality  Square.  As  Frau  Ursula  walked 
rapidly  up  Bismarck  Street,  she  reflected  upon  her  mar 
riage.  Why  had  Hauser  failed  her  so  lamentably?  She 


CHILDHOOD  123 

asked  the  question  bitterly,  without  applying  the  pains 
taking,  honest  analysis  which  might  have  afforded  her  an 
illuminating  reply.  She  would  have  been  infinitely  better 
off  if  she  had  never  married  him.  Fate,  hitherto,  had  saved 
her  the  final  pang.  What,  if  she  were  one  day  to  meet  a 
man  who  would  love  her,  and  whom  she  would  love  in 
return  ? 

The  first  time  that  this  phase  of  her  problem  had  oc 
curred  to  her,  she  had  warded  it  off  angrily.  Did  she  not 
belong  to  Guide's  father  spiritually?  A  spiritual  widow 
hood,  however,  is  an  anomalous  condition  and  twelve  years 
is  a  long  time  to  maintain  so  spurious  and  ghostly  a  senti 
ment.  As  the  memory  of  the  second  Guido  became  blurred, 
her  healthy  youth  reasserted  itself  and  cried  imperiously 
for  love  and  for  the  sweet  intimacy  and  companionship 
procurable  in  no  other  way. 

There  were  other  things  as  well  for  which  it  cried  out 
clamorously,  and  it  was  written  in  the  Book  of  Fate  that 
at  least  one  other  of  these  clandestine  yearnings  was  to 
be  aggravated  and  mortified  that  morning. 

Playing  in  the  narrow  strip  of  garden  which  separated 
Pastor  Marlow's  church  from  the  parsonage,  Frau  Ursula, 
in  passing,  espied  little  Elschen  Marlow,  the  Pastor's  only 
child — and  the  little  girl  espied  her. 

Elschen's  mother  had  died  in  giving  birth  to  her  little 
daughter,  and  her  father's  housekeeper,  an  old  Silesian 
peasant  woman,  who  in  the  ten  years  of  her  American 
career  had  learned  not  a  word  of  English  and  was  proud 
of  it,  dressed  Elschen  in  a  style  which  was  deemed  to  be 
particularly  German  throughout  Anasquoit.  The  plain 
little  frocks  in  which  the  child  was  arrayed  were  invariably 
made  of  stout  German  linen  and  were  low-necked  and 
short-sleeved  both  in  winter  and  summer.  From  the  scal 
loped  edge  in  red  or  blue  peeped  Elschen's  plump  little 
arms  which,  all  through  the  cold  season,  were  woefully 
chapped.  The  style  in  which  these  plain  little  smocks  were 
made  never  varied.  Her  coats,  jackets  and  stockings  were 
all  domestic  products,  and  her  queer  little  hats  showed  the 
clumsy  makeshifts  of  the  amateur  and  unimaginative 
milliner.  But  the  charm  of  the  golden-haired,  blue-eyed 
child  was  so  great  that  her  ungainly  garments,  instead  of 
giving  her  the  appearance  of  being  out-of-date,  made  her 


124  THE  HYPHEN 

seem  the  survival  of  an  earlier,  less  sophisticated  genera 
tion.  The  little  one's  manner,  in  which  a  painstaking  pre 
cision  was  coupled  with  an  artless  desire  to  please,  furthered 
this  impression.  The  child  had  a  quaint  charm  which  was 
all  her  own.  In  her  way  she  was  exquisite  and  unmatchable. 

She  ran  quickly  to  the  fence  to  greet  Frau  Ursula,  ad 
dressing  her  in  German.  Elschen's  style  in  speech  was  as 
distinctive  as  her  style  in  address  and  her  manner.  She 
used  quaint,  slightly  stilted,  old-fashioned  expressions 
which,  falling  from  the  lips  of  a  child  lost  their  aridness 
and  seemed  instead  ingratiating  and  dear. 

"Are  you  having  a  holiday  to-day,  Elschen  ?"  Frau  Ursula 
inquired. 

"Ach,"  the  adorable  child  replied.  "You  are  no  doubt 
surprised  that  I  am  not  in  school.  But  I  have  been  quite 
ill  and  Dr.  Koenig  says  that  I  must  romp  and  play  out 
doors  another  week.  Otherwise,  assuredly,  my  papa  and 
Frau  Vogler  would  not  allow  me  to  play  truant." 

"I  am  sorry  you  have  been  ill,  Elschen,"  said  Frau  Ursula, 
'but  your  cheeks  are  as  pink  as  ever." 

"My  cheeks  are  always  pink,"  the  child  retorted,  seri 
ously.  "I  hope,"  she  added,  "they  will  not  be  quite  so 
pink  when  I  am  a  young  lady.  Do  you  think  they  will  ?" 

"There  is  no  telling,  of  course,"  Frau  Ursula  replied, 
suppressing  a  smile.  "But  why  do  you  dislike  pink  cheeks 
in  young  ladies?" 

"I  dislike  them  only  because  so  often  the  color  is  not 
natural,"  the  child  replied  with  the  utmost  gravity.  "Frau 
Vogler  says  we  may  dye  our  dresses  and  paint  our  houses 
and  stain  our  floors,  but  we  must  never  dye  our  hair,  or 
paint  our  cheeks,  or  stain  our  eye-lashes." 

"That  is  excellent  advice,  I  am  sure,"  said  Frau  Ursula. 
Her  smile  refused  to  be  suppressed  any  longer.  But  Elschen 
was  in  no  way  disconcerted  by  her  visitor's  amusement. 

"Some  day,"  she  said,  "when  I  have  recovered  entirely 
and  can  carry  no  contagion,  I  am  coming  to  see  your  little 
boy.  I  am  so  sorry  for  him  because  he  is  always  ill.  While 
I  was  ill  myself,  it  came  to  me  as  never  before  that  his 
fate  is  a  very  pathetic  one." 

Elschen's  unconscious  assumption  of  the  manner  of  a 
grown-up,  and  her  simple  child's  phrasing  commingled  with 


CHILDHOOD  125 

an  adult  vocabulary  broadened  Frau  Ursula's  smile.  She 
bit  her  inner  lip  to  restrain  her  amusement. 

"I  am  afraid,  Elschen,"  she  said,  "that  it  will  sadden 
you  to  see  Guido." 

"Ach  ja,  verehrte  Frau,  it  will  make  me  very  sad  to  see 
him  ill  and  suffering.  But  it  would  make  me  much  more 
sad  to  neglect  going  to  see  him." 

"He  is  pretty  well  just  now,"  said  Frau  Ursula',  "so  you 
must  make  haste,  or  he  will  have  recovered  entirely  and 
be  back  at  school  before  you  know  it." 

Little  Elschen  Marlow  turned  around  abruptly  and 
critically  regarded  the  strip  of  garden,  sodden  with  moisture 
from  the  last  thaw,  and  looking  raw  and  rasped  and  un 
promising. 

"I  hope  Guido  will  not  have  recovered  entirely  before 
our  garden  has  had  a  chance  to  bloom,"  she  said.  "I  have 
set  my  heart  on  bringing  him  a  bouquet.  We  are  going 
to  have  an  old-fashioned  garden  this  year — hyacinths  and 
tulips,  gardenias,  hollyhock,  zenias  and  sweet  williams." 

"But  you  wouldn't  wish  Guido  to  be  ill  until  the  holly 
hocks  bloom — it's  an  autumn  flower,  you  know,"  said  Frau 
Ursula. 

"I  would  not  have  him  ill  at  all,"  said  Elschen,  entirely 
unembarrassed.  "I  am  afraid  I  did  say  something  of  the 
sort.  Didn't  I?  il  meant,  of  course,  that  I  hoped  to  give 
him  a  little  pleasure  while  he  is  still  ill.  If  you  think  he 
is  going  to  get  well  quickly,  I  will  make  him  some  paper 
roses,  if  my  father  permits  me  to.  My  father  was  very 
much  opposed  at  first  to  my  visiting  Guido  at  all,  because 
Guido  is  a  little  boy  and  I  am  a  little  girl,  but  he  finally 
consented  when  I  explained  to  him  that  Guido  is  entirely 
different  from  other  boys." 

Parenthetically  Frau  Ursula  wondered  how  that  appraisal 
would  strike  her  boy. 

She  said : 

"It  was  very  kind  of  your  father  to  give  his  consent." 

"My  father  is  kindness  itself,"  the  little  girl  retorted, 
proudly. 

"And  in  what  way  do  you  think  Guido  different  from 
other  boys  ?"  Frau  Ursula  pursued. 

Elschen  wrinkled  her  childish  brow. 

"I  have  only  seen  him  once,"  she  said,  "but  the  impres- 


126  THE  HYPHEN 

sion  he  made  upon  me  was  excellent.  I  am  sure  he  would 
not  fib,  or  put  sticky  things  like  chewing-gum  or  taffy  under 
the  teacher's  chair,  or  pins  in  the  benches  where  we  girls 
sit,  or  pepper  in  the  singing-books." 

"But  how  can  you  be  sure  of  all  this?" 

With  .  enchanting  innocence  the  child  pointed  to  her 
heart,  as  she  replied: 

"I  have  a  feeling  here  which  tells  me  it  is  as  I  say,  Ach, 
verehrte  Frau!  Guido  looks  just  like  the  English  poet 
Byron  when  he  was  a  little  boy.  My  father  has  a  print 
of  him  in  his  study.  No,  I  am  quite  certain  that  Guido 
is  never  horrid  and  naughty." 

The  child's  ingenuousness  was  delicious.  Frau  Ursula 
stooped  and  kissed  Elschen.  She  kissed  Elschen  delicately, 
as  if  fearing  that  the  child's  flesh  might  be  susceptible  to 
injury  if  more  robustly  saluted.  In  Frau  Ursula's  eyes 
there  was  a  curious  yearning — the  look  of  the  daughterless 
woman.  Covetousness  entered  her  heart.  This — this  she 
had  missed  and  was  missing  because  her  marriage  to  Hauser 
had  been  a  failure.  She  felt  the  unfairness  of  blaming 
Hauser,  and  yet  she  did  blame  him.  The  passion  which 
he  had  not  disguised  in  the  early  days  of  their  marriage 
had  offended  her,  but  his  diffidence  offended  her  just  as 
much  now.  She  told  herself  that  if  he  had  not  been  such 
a  wretched  psychologist,  he  would  have  intuitively  reversed 
those  emotions  and  ensured  his  happiness  as  well  as  her 
own. 

Her  attention  reverted  to  Elschen.  She  dipped  into  the 
future.  Covetousness  pursued  a  different  lane,  and  at  the 
end  of  it  Frau  Ursula  with  eyes  of  augury  beheld  blazoned 
an  epithalamium. 

She  bade  the  lovely  little  creature  farewell,  inviting  her 
to  come  and  see  Guido  at  once  and  not  to  wait  either  for 
spring  or  autumn  flowers.  Then  she  walked  rapidly  away, 
determined  to  indulge  in  no  useless  repining.  But  the 
elemental  instinct  which  the  little  girl  had  aroused  in  her 
harassed  her  cruelly.  In  the  early  days  of  her  marriage 
to  the  Rittergustbesitzer  whenever  she  had  considered  the 
possibility  of  maternity,  she  had  always  longed  for  a 
daughter.  That,  perhaps,  was  not  so  strange,  for  she  did 
not  love  her  husband  and  a  daughter  would  have  belonged 
more  intimately  to  herself  than  to  him.  But — and  this  was 


CHILDHOOD  127 

strange — in  the  dreams  which  she  had  woven  about  Guido 
von  Estritz  when  their  friendship  was  young,  her  dimly 
perceived  and  yet  articulate  maternal  longings  had  always 
gravitated  about  the  image  of  a  female  child.  That  image 
had  been  very  much  like  Elschen  in  lineament  and  spirit, 
and  she  had,  in  consequence,  taken  Elschen  to  her  heart 
the  first  time  she  had  seen  her. 

Frau  Ursula  was  now  thirty-three  years  old.  Abroad, 
in  the  older  countries,  that  age  might  place  a  woman  in 
the  Methusalah  class.  Not  so  in  the  United  States.  Over 
and  above  her  passionate  adoration  for  Guido,  her  heart 
cried  out  for  the  love  of  other  children  and  above  all,  with 
an  insistence  which  was  at  times  ruthless,  for  the  affection 
and  devotion  and  moral  support  of  a  mate. 

She  was  within  several  blocks  of  their  apartment  when 
she  caught  sight  of  a  man  walking  rapidly  down  Maple 
Street,  which  traversed  Bismarck  Street  at  right  angles. 
The  corner  lot  was  vacant,  and  she  had  an  unimpeded  view 
of  the  pedestrian.  He  and  she  were  equi-distant  from 
the  point  of  intersection  of  the  streets,  and  thus  were 
destined  to  meet.  The  man  swung  along  easily.  She  liked 
the  cut  of  his  fashionable  overcoat.  As  the  distance  be 
tween  him  and  herself  diminished,  she  gave  a  sudden  gasp 
of  surprise.  The  man  whose  appearance  had  pleased  her 
so  greatly  was  Hauser. 

A  sudden  feeling  of  intimacy,  of  good-fellowship,  of 
liking  invaded  her.  For  once  she  did  not  stem  the  tide  of 
her  friendliness.  It  amused  her  to  think  that  she  had  not 
recognized  him.  She  recalled  his  appearance  at  the  time 
of  their  marriage.  How  vulgar  and  cheap  and  cringing  he 
had  appeared  to  her  at  that  time !  How  dignified  and 
self-respecting  he  seemed  now  !  Surely,  the  outward  change 
for  the  better  must  be  accompanied  by  an  inner  change. 
America  must  have  transformed  not  merely  the  outer  husk 
of  the  man,  but  the  inner  man  as  well. 

Suddenly,  she  could  not  have  said  why,  she  felt  culpable, 
dishonest,  mean  and  base. 

They  were  now  within  ten  paces  of  each  other,  and  still 
he  did  not  see  her.  He  would  have  passed  her,  if  following 
a  generous  impulse,  she  had  not  pronounced  his  name. 

"Erich,"  she  cried,  in  a  low  voice. 

Frau  Ursula  never  forgot  the  look  that  came  into  her 


128  THE  HYPHEN 

husband's  face  when  he  saw  her.  It  was  a  look  of  radiant 
joy,  a  look  so  intense  and  penetrating  that  it  touched  her 
as  the  prick  of  a  white-hot  needle  might  have  done.  It 
abashed  her.  She  regretted  having  spoken  to  him.  She 
felt  that  she  had  taken  an  unfair  advantage.  In  his  sur 
prise  he  was  allowing  her  to  look  into  the  very  depths  of 
his  soul.  As  he  stood  looking  at  her  without  speaking, 
he  seemed  to  her  a  different  man  from  the  Hauser  she 
had  known  and  despised.  The  strange  sense  of  intimacy 
which  she  had  experienced  was  wiped  away.  He  now 
seemed  to  her  an  utter  stranger  and  she  had  committed  an 
indiscretion  in  hailing  him. 

With  a  closer  approach  to  coquetry  than  her  manner  to 
him  had  ever  shown,  she  said : 

"And  do  you  never  look  at  any  woman  whom  you  pass 
in  the  street?" 

"Never,"  he  replied,  soberly.  "I  have  eyes  for  one  woman 
only,  yourself;  and  you  know  it.'" 

"To-day  not  even  for  me,"  she  retorted,  a  little  confused 
by  an  almost  tragic  note  in  his  voice.  "And  do  you  know," 
she  continued,  hurriedly,  "I  did  not  know  you  in  that 
overcoat." 

"I  am  wearing  it  for  the  first  time,"  he  said. 

"Were  you  going  home?"  she  inquired. 

"No,  I'm  on  my  way  to  the  store,"  he  retorted.  "But, 
if  you  don't  mind,  I  should  like  to  walk  with  you  as  far 
as  the  house." 

"The  street,"  she  said,  with  an  attempt  at  humor,  "is  a 
public  thoroughfare  and  belongs  equally  to  all." 

"Yes,  but  the  gift  of  your  companionship  lies  with  you, 
and,  in  my  eyes,  it  is  the  most  precious  thing  in  the  world." 

Frau  Ursula's  heart  began  to  beat  wildly.  His  diffidence, 
then,  had  merely  been  assumed.  Was  this  chance  meeting 
in  the  street  to  mark  a  turning  point  in  their  lives?  And 
suddenly,  in  an  access  of  generosity,  she  blamed  herself, 
herself  wholly  and  solely,  for  the  intolerable  situation 
which  had  subsisted  between  them  so  long. 

In  her  excitement  she  began  to  walk  very  rapidly,  Hauser 
keeping  pace  with  her. 

"Ursula !" 

"Yes?" 

"Are  you  angry  with  me  for  saying  that  ?" 


CHILDHOOD  129 

"On  the  contrary — I  am  inclined  to  be  a  little  angry 
with  myself."  She  was  thinking  of  the  wasted  years  that 
yawned  between  them  and  which  might  still  prove  a  more 
formidable  barrier  than  coral  reef  or  granite  wall. 

He  misunderstood  her  words,  of  course.  That — con 
tinuously  misunderstanding  each  other — was  one  of  the 
penalties  which  the  wasted  years  exacted  from  both  of 
them. 

"Why  angry  with  yourself,  Ursula?  Because  you  were 
sweet  and  kind  to  me?  Ursula,  if  you  did  not  mean  it, 
why  were  you  so  kind  to  me  just  now?" 

False  modesty  held  her  silent  for  a  moment.  She  became 
embarrassed,  and  because  she  was  embarrassed,  she  laughed. 
Instantly  his  eyes  became  hard  and  cruel.  He  looked  at 
her  menacingly.  Quickly,  barely  realizing  what  she  was 
doing,  she  slipped  her  hand  through  his  arm. 

"I  like  your  overcoat,"  she  said.  "You  asked  me  why 
I  was  kind  to  you.  If  you  require  an  explanation,  let  us 
blame  the  overcoat.  You  seem  like  a  different  man  to 
me  in  it." 

"Ursula,"  Hauser  said,  gravely,  "that  is  the  first  time 
I  have  ever  heard  you  say  anything  puerile." 

Some  imp  of  mischief  prompted  her  to  go  on  teasing 
him.  There  are  moments  when  the  most  serious-minded 
of  women  seeks  refuge  in  seeming  frivolity.  If  her  life 
had  depended  upon  it,  Frau  Ursula  could  not  have  been 
serious  at  the  moment. 

"Probably  you  have  overestimated  me  in  the  past,"  she 
said,  lightly. 

"No,  I  have  not  overestimated  you,"  Hauser  replied. 
"You  may  have  underestimated  me,  but  I  have  not  over 
estimated  you.  You  are  very  fine.  You — well,  you  are 
you,  Ursula." 

Frau  Ursula  blushed  furiously.  She  tried  to  check  both 
the  color  and  the  look  of  pleasure  which  had  come  to  her 
eyes,  but  failed.  She  said,  rather  fatuously,  as  she  was 
aware : 

"Let's  try  and  be  better  friends  in  future,  Erich." 

"I'm  willing,"  he  retorted,  grimly. 

They  had  reached  their  own  gate  by  this  time. 

"Will  you  be  home  for  lunch  ?"  she  inquired. 

"No,  not  to-day."    He  raised  his  hat,  and  giving  her  a 


130  THE  HYPHEN 

sad,  wan  smile,  left  her.     She  watched  him  fascinatedly 
as  he  walked  away. 

Frau  Ursula  found  Mrs.  Thornton  reading  to  Guido,  and 
she  was  thankful  for  leisure  to  pursue  her  own  thoughts. 
She  asked  herself  whether  it  was  possible  that  she  had 
really  come  to  care  for  Erich.  Assuredly,  his  treatment 
of  Guido  was  atrocious,  but  the  veriest  tyro  in  psychology 
would  set  that  down  to  jealousy.  She  realized  that,  with 
the  rectified  impression  of  Hauser  in  her  heart  and  mind, 
she  was  disposed  to  deal  leniently  with  him.  She  wished 
to  be  lenient.  It  was  no  longer  a  question  of  expediency 
for  Guide's  sake,  she  wished  to  break  with  the  irrevocable 
past  and  to  begin  a  new  life  with  her  husband. 

Nevertheless  she  was  determined  to  speak  to  him  very 
plainly  regarding  his  treatment  of  Guido  in  the  event  that 
he  should  renew  his  wooing,  which  she  felt  fairly  certain 
he  would  do. 

Old  Kaetchen  was  ill  and  she  busied  herself  in  the 
kitchen.  The  butcher  had  made  a  mistake  in  filling  the 
order,  and  there  were  only  enough  chops  for  two.  She 
decided,  therefore,  to  get  her  own  luncheon  at  the  store. 

To  her  dismay,  just  as  she  was  carrying  the  tray  for 
Mrs.  Thornton  and  Guido  to  Guide's  room,  she  heard  her 
husband  let  himself  in  with  his  key.  Hurriedly  she  set 
the  tray  down,  and,  having  asked  Mrs.  Thornton  to  serve 
the  meal,  she  ran  back  to  the  dining-room,  nervously  re 
viewing,  as  women  will  at  such  moments,  the  contents 
of  her  larder.  There  were  eggs,  of  course,  but  Hauser 
never  touched  eggs  excepting  at  breakfast.  And  there  was 
a  slice  of  cold  roast  beef,  which  he  loathed,  and  some 
tinned  cornbeef,  of  which  he  disapproved.  She  wondered 
whether  she  could  cajole  the  butcher  into  sending  her 
some  more  chops  at  once,  or  whether  she  should  ask  Mrs. 
Thornton  to  run  down  to  Main  Street  for  her.  This,  un 
doubtedly,  would  the  best  plan.  She  was  about  to  turn 
back  from  the  dining-room,  thinking  herself  unperceived 
by  Hauser.  But  he  had  heard  her  and  called  to  her  to 
come  in. 

He  stood  at  the  table  undoing  a  large  package. 

"We  received  a  new  line  of  toys  at  the  store  this  morn 
ing,"  he  said,  without  looking  up,  "and  I  brought  home 


CHILDHOOD  131 

a  miniature  race-course  for  Guido.  D'you  think  he'll 
like  it?" 

Frau  Ursula  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise.  The 
toy  race-course  was  a  very  elaborate  affair.  There  were 
six  horses.  Each  horse  was  controlled  by  a  target,  and 
it  was  necessary  to  hit  the  bull's  eye  of  the  respective 
target  in  order  to  advance  each  horse  six  paces.  The  outer 
circles  counted  for  less.  It  was  a  very  handsome  as  well 
as  a  cleverly  devised  toy,  for  each  miniature  horse  was 
covered  with  real  hair — white,  black,  dappled,  roan,  gray 
and  brown — and  each  jockey  was  perfectly  equipped  not 
only  with  an  individual  costume  but  with  an  individualized 
face,  was,  in  fact,  a  tiny,  beautifully  conceived  and  beauti 
fully  executed  natural  doll.  Frau  Ursula  thought  the  toy 
far  too  expensive  and  too  handsome  to  be  presented  on 
any  but  a  gala  day,  and  said  so,  but  her  husband  replied: 

"Oh,  let  the  poor  little  beggar  have  it  now.  Give  it  to 
him  some  time  to-day." 

"Won't  you  give  it  to  him  yourself?"  she  asked,  plead 
ingly. 

"If  you  wish  it,  certainly." 

She  did  not  follow  her  husband  to  Guide's  room.  She 
did  not  wish  to  divert  attention  to  herself.  She  stood 
with  her  hands  pressed  to  her  bosom  while  she  listened  to 
Guido  giving  vent  to  rapturous  exclamations  of  delight. 
Mauser's  voice,  pitched  in  an  explanatory  key,  filled  in  the 
pauses.  The  face  of  the  world  was  being  transformed  for 
her. 

From  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous  is  but  a  step.  With 
a  jolt  her  mind  came  back  to  the  deficiencies  of  the  cup 
board.  She  flew  to  the  telephone.  As  Hauser  was  in 
Guide's  room,  she  could  not,  unperceived,  ask  Mrs.  Thorn 
ton  to  go  to  the  butcher's  for  her.  Nothing  remained  but 
to  ask  the  butcher  to  shanghai  some  boy  and  send  him  up 
with  the  meat.  Then,  when  she  was  through  entreating 
the  butcher  to  make  an  exception  this  once  and  send  her 
the  chops  on  the  instant,  she  became  aware  that  her  hus 
band  was  standing  at  her  elbow. 

"What  made  you  do  that?"  he  demanded. 

"There's  not  a  thing  to  eat  in  the  house,"  she  began, 
apologetically.  She  felt  the  disgrace  involved  in  that 
confession. 


,132 


THE  HYPHEN 


Hauser  laughed. 

"What  of  it?"  he  said.  "We  are  going  out  for  our 
lunch.  Surely,  Ursula,  you  are  not  going  to  refuse  me?" 

She  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  refusing.  She 
ran  to  her  room  blithely.  Her  pulses  were  stirred  with 
the  soft,  eager  excitement  which  fills  a  young  girl  on  the 
evening  of  her  first  ball.  She  even  hesitated  over  her 
dress,  choosing  first  one  and  then  another.  Finally  she 
decided  to  wear  a  gown  of  dark  blue  poplin  trimmed  with 
panne  velvet  and  rich  lace,  which  she  had  never  worn. 
She  had  not  worn  it  because  dark  blue  was  her  husband's 
favorite  color,  a  circumstance  which  she  had  totally  for 
gotten  until  the  finished  dress  was  actually  in  her  posses 
sion.  And  because  she  did  not  wish  him  to  think  she 
had  chosen  the  dress  to  please  him,  she  had  refrained  from 
wearing  it.  Now,  reversing  this  psychology,  she  decided 
to  wear  the  dress.  It  seemed  fortuitious  that  she  should 
have  in  her  wardrobe  a  new  gown  which  was  certain  to 
please  her  husband. 

Suddenly,  while  she  was  dressing,  a  strange  thing  hap 
pened.  There  passed  before  her  mind's  eye  the  face  of 
Guido  von  Estritz — the  second  Guido.  It  was  one  of  those 
flashes  of  memory  which  spring  from  no  known  source 
of  emotion,  and  which,  unless  some  subsequent  event  gives 
them  point,  seem  wholly  inexplicable.  The  vision  had 
power  over  her  for  a  moment  only.  She  was  not  a  capri 
cious  woman,  and  she  continued  to  dress  herself  as 
calmly  as  if  Guido  von  Estritz  had  never  existed. 

Hauser  had  a  taxicab  at  the  door  which  brought  them 
in  less  than  five  minutes  to  the  Anasquoit  Hofbrauhaus, 
noted  for  its  excellent  cuisine  and  its  fine  orchestra. 
Hauser's  hand  trembled  as  he  helped  his  wife  to  alight. 
It  was  the  first  time  in  the  twelve  years  of  their  married 
life  that  these  two  had  sought  any  place  of  entertainment 
together. 

She  was  a  little  surprised  by  his  manner  in  ordering  the 
repast.  It  was  good,  perhaps  a  trifle  too  peremptory,  too 
patronizingly  authoritative.  But  she  was  not  in  the  mood 
to  find  fault  with  him.  She  wanted  to  gloss  over  his  faults 
because  she  wanted  desperately  to  be  happy. 

During  the  meal  their  conversation  was  conventional, 
and  Frau  Ursula  began  to  wonder  why  he  had  brought  her. 


CHILDHOOD  133 

But  when  the  last  dishes  had  been  removed,  and  the  bill 
paid,  Hauser  came  and  sat  beside  his  wife  on  the  cushioned 
seat  under  the  window  which  ran  all  around  the  spacious 
room.  The  murmur  of  the  orchestra,  distant  from  their 
table,  made  their  words  inaudible  to  all  but  themselves. 
Conversationally  they  were  as  isolated  as  if  they  had  been 
stranded  in  the  heart  of  the  primeval  forest. 

"Ursula,"  said  Hauser,  "I  have  a  good  deal  to  say  to 
you.  May  I  say  it  now?" 

She  nodded  assent. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  first  of  all  about  my  plans  for  the 
immediate  future." 

"About  the  store?" 

"No,  I've  told  you  all  there  is  to  tell  about  the  Leviathan: 
I  want  to  tell  you  about  a  house  I  intend  to  build." 

"A  house?"  she  demanded,  in  amazement. 

"Yes,  Ursula.  In  the  olden  days,  abroad,  before  you 
came  to  Berlin,  you  were  accustomed  to  live  in  luxury  and 
in  splendor.  It  has  been  the  great  ambition  of  my  life 
to  provide  you  with  all  you  were  formerly  accustomed  to. 
Before  I  met  you  my  sole  endeavor  was  to  advance  myself 
in  the  hope  of  some  day  becoming  a  Kommerzienrat  or 
receiving  a  title.  From  the  day  I  met  you  all  my  ambi 
tions  began  to  cluster  about  you.  Oh,  I  know,  of  course, 
that  if  you  had  wished  to  use  the  interest  of  your  boy's 
money,  you  could  have  lived  quite  splendidly.  But  that 
wasn't  the  point  as  far  as  I  was  concerned.  I  wanted 
to  provide  for  you,  and  I  meant  to  give  you  as  good  as 
you  were  used  to  abroad.  It's  been  a  long,  hard  fight, 
but  I  am  winning  out.  I  thank  you  for  not  using  the 
interest  of  Guide's  money  to  set  up  a  fine  menage  for 
yourself.  I  regret  that  I  have  not  been  able  to  persuade 
you  to  refrain  from  paying  for  the  boy's  upkeep  out  of 
his  own  money.  It  was,  perhaps,  natural,  that  you  should 
wish  to  do  so.  After  all,  that's  neither  here  nor  there. 
I'm  going  to  repay  you  the  money  you  loaned  me  in 
another  half-year.  I've  made  good  with  my  small  store. 
I  made  a  small  fortune.  Then  I  speculated.  I  made  more 
money,  and  the  Leviathan  will  place  us  on  a  different 
social  footing  than  before.  I'm  no  longer  in  the  pin  and 
needle  store  category.  I'm  headed  for  the  Macy  and 
Wanamaker  class." 


134  THE  HYPHEN 

"Ah,"  cried  Frau  Ursula,  anxiously,  "be  careful.  You've 
being  doing  things  on  such  a  tremendous  scale.  The  ex 
penses  which  you  must  be  incurring  terrify  me." 

"They  need  not.  I've  done  nothing  unadvisedly.  I've 
a  very  comfortable  bank  account.  All  is  going  to  go  well. 

That  is — if "  he  broke  off  suddenly.  "Ursula,"  he 

said,  "I  love  you.  I  made  you  very  angry  when  we  were 
first  married  by  making  love  to  you.  So  I  desisted.  But 
I've  loved  you  right  along.  And  I've  labored  and  striven — 
slaved,  as  the  Americans  say — to  make  good  in  a  big  way 
because  I  realized  that  therein  lay  my  one  chance  of  win 
ning  you." 

"You  hoped  to  buy  me?"  Frau  Ursula  inquired,  gently 
reproachful. 

"You  know  very  well  that  was  not  what  I  meant.  By 
arousing  your  pride  in  me  and  in  my  success  I  hoped  that 
you  would  come  to  care  for  me." 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed,  wondering  at  his  unexpected  in 
sight  into  the  feminine  soul. 

"Perceive,"  he  said,  speaking  with  a  gentleness  of  which 
she  had  not  thought  him  capable,  "that  I  am  paying  you 
the  very  great  compliment  of  supposing  that  you  might 
feel  pride  in  a  self-made  man.  We've  both  changed  im 
measurably  since  coming  to  America." 

"Have  I  changed  also  ?"  she  asked. 

Hauser  laughed,  but  did  not  reply.  Frau  Ursula  colored 
lightly.  Although  she  criticised  him  incessantly,  it  irritated 
her  to  think  that  he  criticised  her. 

"I  know  I've  changed,"  she  conceded.  "I  was  a  good  deal 
of  a' snob  abroad." 

"How  could  you  have  escaped  the  taint!"  he  exclaimed. 
"I  confess,  I  am  still  fond  of  titles.  Have  you  outgrown  the 
weakness  completely?" 

"I've  never  thought  about  it,"  she  replied. 

"Then  you  have,"  he  said,  with  decision.  "But  at  any 
rate,  you  haven't  outgrown  your  fondness  for  a  mansion — 
at  least  I  hope  you  haven't.  For  I  want  you  to  have  the 
finest  house  in  all  Anasquoit." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  do  anything  rash,"  she  said.  "I  am 
contented  where  I  am." 

"But  I'm  not.  I  want  to  see  you  in  a  proper  setting  at 
last — rich  hangings  and  draperies,  marble  statuary  and 


CHILDHOOD  135 

palms,  hand-carved  mahogany,  rare  etchings,  a  few  oils  and 
water-colors,  perhaps  a  dry-point  or  two.  And  nothing  but 
sterling  silver,  cut-glass  and  crystal  chandeliers." 

"Ah !"  she  cried,  a  little  amused  by  his  boyish  enthusiasm, 
"is  it  a  home  or  a  museum  you  intend  building?" 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  smiling  gravely,  "but  that  blessed 
house  has  been  my  favorite  relaxation  for  years.  Often, 
when  I  lay  awake  at  night,  I  pictured  you  surrounded  by 
beautiful  and  costly  things,  by  the  homage  of  admiring 
friends,  by  everything  that  makes  life  worth  while.  Your 
life  there  has  been  so  meager,  so  inadequate,  so  poor  in 
everything  that  dignifies  life  and  ennobles  it  and  raises  it 
above  the  level  of  mere  animal  existence." 

Frau  Ursula  was  genuinely  touched  at  last.  She  laid  her 
hand  upon  his  and  pressed  it  gently.  He  started,  then,  very 
quickly,  before  she  could  hinder  him,  he  raised  her  hand  to 
his  lips  and  kissed  it. 

For  a  few  minutes  after  that  they  both  employed  them 
selves  assiduously  in  scanning  the  room  to  perceive  if  they 
had  been  observed.  Reassured  that  no  one  had  perceived 
them,  Hauser  resumed. 

He  had,  he  said,  first  thought  of  building  the  house  and 
presenting  it  to  her  as  a  surprise.  But  he  had  thought  better 
of  that  scheme.  He  thought  that  in  all  probability  his  wife 
would  prefer  to  select  her  own  house — site,  plans  and  all. 
He  had  in  view  two  sites,  both  on  Bismarck  Street.  The 
site  corner  of  Rhododendron  Street  was  the  larger  of  the 
two,  but  he  feared  that  the  neighborhood  was  being  disin 
tegrated  as  a  residential  section.  Dr.  Koenig's  house,  near 
Tamarack  Street,  had  already  depreciated  in  value,  and 
Hauser  feared  that  the  process  of  commercializing  the 
lower  part  of  Bismarck  Street  would  take  place  so  rapidly 
as  to  extend  to  Rhodendron  and  even  to  Papaw  Street 
within  another  decade  or  two.  Therefore  he  considered 
the  other  site  preferable.  It  was  located  on  Bismarck 
corner  off  Hemlock,  ran  all  the  way  down  to  Main  and 
extended  back  half  a  block  along  Bismarck  toward  Iron- 
wood  Street.  Frau  Ursula  knew  the  block  well.  It  was 
one  of  the  most  desirable  blocks  in  Anasquoit  and  com 
manded  a  view  of  the  river.  She  could  not  suppress  an 
exclamation  of  pleasure. 

Hauser  continued: 


136  THE  HYPHEN 

"The  frost  will  be  out  of  the  ground  in  another  fort 
night,"  he  said.  "If  we  begin  building  in  April,  we  will  be 
able  to  move  into  the  house  next  autumn.  I  will  have  the 
furnace  going  full  blast  for  a  week  before  we  move  in. 
That  will  make  you  feel  safe  in  taking  Guido  into  a  new 
house." 

"Ah,"  Frau  Ursula  exclaimed,  "that  is  kind  of  you, 
Erich." 

"And  of  course,"  he  went  on  hurriedly,  as  if  ashamed  of 
his  generous  thought,  "as  soon  as  we  have  moved  into  the 
Leviathan  you  are  not  going  to  come  to  the  store  any  more. 
The  restaurant  will  be  in  charge  of  a  chef.  You're  going 
to  stay  at  home  and  enjoy  your  leisure  and  your  friends." 

"I  haven't  many,"  she  remarked,  a  little  sadly. 

"But  you  will  have,"  he  assured  her,  hopefully.  "I'm 
getting  Baumgarten  to  put  me  up  at  the  Deutsche  Verein. 
I  couldn't  have  asked  it  of  him  before — a  pin  and  needle 
vender.  But  now  things  are  different.  You'll  find  yourself 
with  plenty  of  friends  presently." 

A  look  of  comic  dismay  spread  over  Frau  Ursula's  face. 
Like  Dr.  Koenig,  though  in  less  degree,  she  mistrusted  racial 
clannishness,  and  the  particular  brand  of  tribal  snobbishness 
bred  by  the  Deutsche  Verein  she  had  always  held  in  par 
ticular  detestation.  Was  the  old  Strebernatur  going  to  re- 
emerge  just  when  she  had  begun  to  think  it  laid  away  for 
ever?  She  checked  her  annoyance.  She  passionately  de 
sired  not  to  be  unjust  to  him  again. 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  will  care  very  much  for  the 
Deutsche  Vere'm  and  its  set,"  she  said  mildly. 

"Won't  you?"  he  seemed  disappointed.  "I  thought 
you'd  like  the  idea.  The  best  people  belong  to  it,  you  know." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  she  forced  herself  to  concede,  "but  you 
see,  Guido  takes  up  all  of  my  leisure  time,"  she  stopped 
abruptly,  fearing  that  her  mention  of  the  boy's  name  would 
evoke  one  of  his  quick  rages.  But  all  he  said  was: 

"Guido  is  getting  better  rapidly,  and  Mrs.  Thornton  is 
both  competent  and  kind.  You  should  try  and  get  some  en 
joyment  out  of  life." 

"Oh,  I  get  a  good  deal  of  enjoyment,  though  not  as  much 
as  I  would  like,"  she  replied,  the  vision  of  a  little  girl  like 
Elschen  Marlow  trembling  uncertainly  before  her  mind's 
eye. 


CHILDHOOD  137 

"The  'good  deal'  I  suppose  is  supplied  by  Guido,  and 
the  'not  as  much'  by  myself,"  said  Hauser,  sarcastic  for  the 
first  time. 

"Don't  you  think  that's  a  little  unfair?"  she  asked. 

"Unfair?    To  you  or  to  me  or  to  Guido?" 

She  smarted  under  his  change  of  manner,  but  she  was 
determined  not  to  lose  her  temper. 

"If  anything,"  she  replied,  calmly,  "it  is  too  generous  to 
Guido." 

"You  surprise  me !"  There  was  no  sarcasm  in  Mauser's 
voice  now,  merely  astonishment. 

"Guido,"  she  continued,  "has  of  course  been  a  source  of 
great  joy  to  me,  but  he  has  also  been  a  grievous  anxiety  and 
responsibility." 

"When  we  speak  of  a  responsibility,"  said  Hauser,  "we 
usually  allow  it  to  be  inferred  that  we  are  responsible  to 
someone  as  well  as  for  someone.  Pray,  to  whom  are  you 
answerable  for  Guido?" 

"I  am  answerable  for  him  to  my  conscience,"  his  wife  re 
plied,  with  unresentful  dignity. 

The  answer  seemed  subtly  to  displease  Hauser.  Without 
replying,  he  dropped  his  eyes. 

"Hauser,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  quickly,  "a  moment  ago  you 
were  so  kind  about  Guido — in  regard  to  the  new  house,  I 
mean.  And  yet  you  dislike  him.  Why  do  you  dislike  the 
child  so  much?" 

"Do  I  dislike  him?  I'll  not  admit  that,"  said  Hauser. 
"To  admit  that  were  to  throw  away  my  last  chance  of  win 
ning  your  love." 

"Ah,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  must  not  side-track  me.  I 
must  intercede  with  you  for  Guido.  Can  I  not  prevail  upon 
you  to  treat  him  with  some  degree  of  kindness  ?" 

"You  are  accusing  me  of  unkindness  in  the  past,"  he 
said,  an  undercurrent  of  anger  in  his  voice. 

Frau  Ursula  broke  into  an  impassioned  plea. 

"I  know  it  cannot  be  pleasant  for  you  to  have  a  strange 
child  in  your  house.  But  you  know  that  the  boy  was  the 
reason  of  our  marriage.  Without  Guido  our  marriage 
would  not  have  taken  place.  If  you  love  me,  as  you  say  you 
do,  do  not  harbor  this  unnatural  resentment  against  the  boy. 
He  brought  us  together,  and — forgive  me  if  I  appear  indeli 
cate — it  is  his  money,  you  know,  or  rather  the  money  which 


138  THE  HYPHEN 

I  received  from  his  mother,  to  which  you  owe  your  present 
prosperity." 

"I  do  not  like  to  be  reminded  of  that,"  said  Hauser, 
frowning.  "It  makes  me  feel  savage.  It  makes  me  feel  as 
if  my  prosperity  were  doomed  to  terminate  abruptly,  as  if 
I  had  done  something  base  and  low  in  accepting  the  loan. 
Perhaps  I  did.  Yet,  God  knows,  my  reasons  for  marrying 
you  were  not  wholly  sordid  and  mercenary." 

"I  know  that,"  she  hastened  to  assure  him.  "I  know  that. 
Hence  my  candor.  I  have  longed  in  the  past  to  feel  that 
I  might  carry  my  worries  about  Guido  to  you,  I  have  longed 
to  feel  that  I  could  come  to  you  for  advice.  I  have  longed 

to  feel "  she  stopped  abruptly,  and  then  concluded 

rather  lamely,  " just  that."  This,  however,  was  not 

what  she  had  intended  to  say.  She  was  a  woman  of  infinite 
pride,  of  exaggerated  modesty,  and  although  fully  assured 
that  her  husband  still  loved  her,  she  hesitated  to  tell  him  that 
she  yearned  for  his  love  even  as  he  yearned  for  hers." 

"I'll  try  to  be  decent  in  the  future,"  he  said.  "If  I  fail 
you  must  ascribe  my  failure  to  the  plea  which  is  as  old  as 
Adam,  'the  spirit  is  willing  but  the  flesh  is  weak.'  " 

"Just  what  does  that  mean — in  this  connection  ?"  his  wife 
inquired. 

"Ursula!"  his  voice  vibrated  with  sudden  white-hot  pas 
sion.  "Put  yourself  in  my  place,  if  you  can.  Woman's 
passions  are  so  much  milder  than  man's,  so  much  softer,  less 
violent  that  I  doubt  whether  you  can  fully  understand.  I 
love  you.  I  have  loved  you  passionately,  and  reverently  as 
as  well,  for  twelve  years.  If  the  element  of  reverence  in 
my  love  were  not  very  strong,  if  it  did  not  predominate  over 
every  other  feeling,  would  I,  could  I  have  suffered  all  I  did 
for  your  sake  ?  For  twelve  years  we  two  have  lived,  eaten, 
slept  in  the  same  house.  For  twelve  years  I  have  daily  seen 
you  lavish  love,  kisses,  caresses  upon  a  child  not  mine.  Can 
you  comprehend  that  my  heart  has  become  a  seething  mass 
of  conflicting  passions?  Often,  often  I  have  thought  that 
jealousy  and  despair  would  drive  me  mad.  I  felt  like  a  beg 
gar  condemned  to  look  on  at  a  perpetual  banquet  and  going 
hungry  himself.  I  am  not  minimizing  what  you  did  for  me 
in  many  ways.  You  kept  my  house  in  order.  My  dinner 
was  always  well  cooked,  my  clothes  were  mended,  my  socks 
were  darned.  But  all  the  physical  comfort  with  which  you 


CHILDHOOD  139 

surrounded  me  was  a  sham  and  a  hollow  pretext  because 
love  was  lacking.  Why,  there  is  more  love  in  the  word  of 
rebuke  which  you  occasionally  address  to  the  boy  than  in  the 
kindest  thing  you  have  ever  said  to  me.  And,  Ursula,  there 

is  the  earthly  tie  of  marriage .  I  do  not  wish  to  dwell 

overmuch  on  that.  Yet  here  I  am,  a  married  man,  married 
to  the  woman  whom  I  adore  and  idolize,  yet  I  am  con 
demned  to  live  as  a  celibate  in  immediate  proximity  to  her. 
Surely,  Ursula,  surely,  you  must  vaguely  comprehend  the 
torture-chamber  in  which  I  have  lived  all  this  time." 

Hauser's  wife  was  conscience-stricken.  She  was  also  a 
little  outraged,  as  women  are  prone  to  be  when  brought  face 
to  face  with  the  elemental  passions  and  facts  of  life. 

"If  it  is  not  too  late,"  she  began,  feebly. 

"If "  he  said,  reproachfully. 

"It  is  not  too  late,"  she  said,  firmly,  blushing  at  her  own 
courage. 

"Ursula !"  he  cried.  He  was  deeply  touched  as  she  could 
see.  For  a  few  moments  he  did  not  trust  himself  to  speak. 
Then  he  said : 

"Come,  dear  wife,  let  us  go." 

It  was  half  past  three  and  Ursula  supposed  that  Hauser 
would  proceed  to  the  store  after  dropping  her  at  their  home. 
He,  however,  dismissed  the  taxi,  and  after  helping  her  to 
alight,  followed  her  in  silence  to  their  apartment.  She  di 
vested  herself  of  her  coat  and  gloves  while  he  stood  watch 
ing  her,  a  smile  on  his  lips,  admiration  and  love  in  his  eyes. 

"Ursula!" 

His  arms  were  outstretched,  on  his  face  a  look  of  mute 
appeal.  Very  quietly  she  went  to  him  and  flung  herself 
with  a  sob  upon  his  breast.  Once  more  the  vision  of  Guido 
von  Estritz  flashed  upon  her  consciousness.  As  if  to  escape 
it,  she  lifted  her  face  to  Hauser  and  received  his  kiss. 

"Now  I  am  his  wife,  indeed,"  she  thought,  "and  no  other 
man,  dead  or  alive,  has  part  in  me." 

The  sound  of  approaching  footsteps  sent  her  away  from 
his  arms  and  from  his  side,  so  new  was  their  sense  of  pos 
session.  Old  Kaetchen,  risen  from  her  bed  of  illness,  was 
at  the  door,  clamoring  to  be  told  the  menu  for  the  evening 
meal. 

Hauser,  with  a  smile,  bade  his  wife  adieu  and  effaced 
himself. 


140  THE  HYPHEN 

Alone  at  last,  Frau  Ursula  bowed  her  head  in  silent 
prayer  upon  her  hands.  Guido  was  going  to  get  well. 

Hauser  had  promised  to  be  kind  and  so  had  she !  The 

shadows  were  clearing  at  last,  and,  as  was  her  habit  when 
deeply  moved,  she  murmured  a  verse,  from  Schiller,  which 
was  apposite  to  her  mood : 

"O  Koenigin,  O  Koenigin,  das  Leben  ist  dock  schoen." 

She  had  the  sensation  that  her  life  heretofore  had  been 
a  desert,  that  she  was  out  of  it  at  last  and  that  her  path 
henceforth  must  run  alongside  of  shining  and  happily  mur 
muring  waters. 

Poor  Ursula!  Perhaps  every  life  is  more  or  less  of  a 
desert,  and  if  so  no  final  escape  is  possible  from  it.  Oases 
punctuate  it  here  and  there  and  most  of  us  must  be  satisfied 
if  we  at  times  hit  upon  a  spacious,  kindly,  fragrance-laden 
one  where  we  may  linger  for  a  while. 

She  had  reached  not  even  an  oasis.  She  had  merely 
glimpsed  a  mirage.  The  sands  of  bitterness  and  gloom  still 
lay  stretched  before  her. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  LITTLE  later  Frau  Ursula  went  to  the  store,  but  she 
was  not  in  a  mood  for  work  and  after  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  of  perfunctory  inspection,  she  returned  to  her 
home.  Mrs.  Thornton  had  gone  off  for  an  afternoon  in 
New  York,  with  some  friends,  and  Frau  Ursula  expected 
to  find  Guido  alone. 

On  entering  the  apartment  she  heard  voices  in  the  parlor, 
and  concluded  that  Otto  was  still  with  Guido,  but  she  be 
came  aware,  almost  immediately  that  it  was  not  Otto's  boy 
ish  treble,  roughened  by  the  miscellaneous  uses  of  boyhood, 
that  overlapped  and  impinged  on  Guide's  clear  bell-like 
voice.  It  was  a  man's  barytone  that  was  speaking;  it  was, 
moreover,  a  foreign,  not  an  American  voice,  and  the  German 
which  the  stranger  spoke  was  broken,  although  fluent 
enough. 

Frau  Ursula,  curiosity  alert,  went  to  the  parlor.  No  in 
stinct  warned  her  against  the  shock  which  awaited  her. 

As  she  entered,  Guido  flew  to  the  door  to  meet  her. 

"Oh,  Mutterchen!  I've  had  a  wonderful  time.  This  gen 
tleman  told  me  all  about  Russia  and  a  lady  with  a  name  like 
a  princess  in  a  fairy  tale.  And  she  is  a  princess  and  they 
threw  her  into  prison  because  she  was  so  kind  to  the  poor. 
And  he  is  a  prince,  too.  Isn't  it  wonderful?  I  cannot  re 
member  the  names,  but  the  prince  says  it  doesn't  matter — no 
one  can,  unless  they're  Russians  themselves." 

Frau  Ursula  stood  frozen  to  the  spot.  For  one  moment 
her  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating.  Then  it  hammered  so 
furiously  that  her  ears  were  filled  with  a  strange  buzzing 
sound.  It  was  with  a  very  white  face  that  she  confronted 
her  visitor. 

He  had  risen  and  was  bowing  to  her  with  the  stately 
punctilio  of  the  educated  European. 

"Permit  me  to  introduce  myself,"  he  said.  "I  am  Dmitri 
Stepanovich.  I  am  the  cousin  of  Varvara  Alexandrovna." 

Guido  clapped  his  hands. 

141 


142  THE  HYPHEN 

"Aren't  those  names  perfectly  beautiful,  Mother?"  he  de 
manded,  ecstatically. 

Frau  Ursula  turned  faint. 

"Guido,"  she  said,  "I  think  Kaetchen  kas  your  Vesper- 
brod  ready  for  you  in  the  kitchen." 

"I  do  not  want  any  Vesperbrod,"  cried  the  excited  child, 

"If  you  please,  Guido,"  said  Frau  Ursula  in  a  voice  which 
brooked  no  opposition.  Reluctantly,  with  dragging  feet,  the 
boy  went  from  the  room. 

At  the  door  he  turned. 

"You  won't  go  away  before  I  have  seen  you  again,  will 
you?"  he  called  from  the  threshold  to  his  new  friend,  in 
his  most  ingratiating  way. 

"I  think  not,"  Prince  Vasalov  called  back. 

Thereupon  Guido  bowed  to  the  Prince,  and  the  Prince, 
with  the  utmost  gravity,  bowed  to  the  boy. 

While  this  little  by-play  was  going  on,  F/au  Ursula  scru 
tinized  Prince  Vasalov  closely.  He  was  tall,  thin  to  ema 
ciation,  with  a  clear  pallid  skin  and  a  mass  of  black  hair 
which  he  wore  somewhat  longer  than  prescribed  by  custom. 
His  features  were  very  fine.  He  bore  a  striking  likeness  to 
his  cousin.  They  might  have  been  twins,  so  like  they  were. 

Perhaps,  for  that  reason,  Frau  Ursula  felt  an  immediate 
acrid  dislike  for  him.  She  was,  as  a  rule,  the  most  self- 
controlled  of  women,  but  now  she  gave  full  rein  to  her 
animosity.  Who  observes  ceremony  of  manners  at  a  ship 
wreck  or  an  earthquake?  The  rights  of  others,  of  course, 
must  be  respected  at  times  of  general  upheaval.  But  Vasa 
lov  had  no  rights.  So  Frau  Ursula  told  herself.  Her 
thoughts  were  turbulent.  "Whatever  happens,  he  cannot 
take  Guido  from  me,"  she  assured  herself.  "He  simply  can 
not."  Nevertheless  she  quailed  in  spirit. 

"Why  have  you  come  here?"  she  demanded,  as  soon  as 
they  were  alone,  and  she  had  closed  the  door  to  the  hall. 
She  spoke  as  a  person  destitute  of  compassion  might  speak 
to  a  beggar.  "What  do  you  want  ?" 

Dmitri  Stepanovich  gave  no  sign  of  surprise  further  than 
that  he  threw  her  a  sharp  look. 

"If  by  'here'  you  mean  this  country,"  he  said,  aloofly,  "I 
can  satisfy  your  curiosity  in  a  few  words.  I  am  a  political 
refugee." ' 

At  these  words  all  the  disdain,  the  scorn,  the  contempt, 


CHILDHOOD  143 

the  black  fury  which  had  been  allowed  to  smoulder  in  Frau 
Ursula's  heart  came  to  the  surface.  What  an  unmitigated 
nuisance  Guide's  Russian  kin  were,  anyhow! 

"I  suppose  that  means  that  you  have  murdered  someone, 
doesn't  it?"  Frau  Ursula  questioned  in  the  same  insolent 
tone  in  which  she  had  spoken  before. 

Vasalov  smiled  detachedly. 

"I  have  rid  the  fair  earth  of  two  outrageous  tyrants,"  he 
replied,  calmly.  "Beasts  of  prey — both  of  them,  in  more 
ways  than  one.  The  human  race  is  better  off  for  being  rid 
of  them." 

"You  should  write  a  treatise  justifying  crime,"  said  Frau 
Ursula,  disdainfully. 

Dmitri  Stepanovich  gave  her  a  searching  look. 

"You  are  very  angry,"  he  said,  coolly,  "otherwise  you 
would  not  treat  a  guest  with  such  deliberate  discourtesy. 
Will  you  permit  me  to  state  my  errand  to  you  ?" 

"I  asked  for  it  before." 

"I  have  a  message  for  you  from  Varvara  Alexandrovna." 

"Then  they  did  not  recapture  her?    She  is  not  dead?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you.  They  recaptured  her — 
yes ;  but  she  is  alive." 

"Ah !"  cried  Frau  Ursula,  her  wild  alarm  getting  the  bet 
ter  of  her  prudence.  "She  cannot  claim  the  boy  now.  He 
belongs  to  me.  I've  brought  him  up.  He  has  been  ill  all 
his  little  life  and  he  is  far  from  strong  even  now.  It  would 
kill  him  to  be  taken  away  from  me.  It  might  kill  him  even 
to  be  told  that  I  am  not  his  mother.  For  he  loves  me — 

loves  me "  she  began  to  sob  and  the  tears  ran  down  her 

cheeks. 

"Compose  yourself,"  Vasalov  replied,  gently.  "I  assure 
you  the  boy  is  not  to  be  taken  away  from  you.  There  has 
been  no  such  thought  in  Varvara  Alexandra  vna's  mind.  She 
would  not  wish  to  separate  the  child  from  you  even  if  she 
were  to  regain  her  liberty,  a  contingency  which  is  virtually 
beyond  the  pale  of  the  possible." 

These  words,  hinting  as  they  did  that  an  irrevocable  fate 
held  in  its  cast-iron  meshes  the  woman  for  whom  Frau 
Ursula  had  felt  such  a  bitter  abhorrence,  had  a  strange  ef 
fect  upon  Frau  Ursula.  She  ceased  hating  Guido's  mother, 
now  feeling  for  her  a  compassion  which  approximated  in 
strength  the  anger  which  had  previously  filled  her. 


144  THE  HYPHEN 

"Varvara  Alexandrovna  escaped  from  Siberia  years  ago," 
said  Frau  Ursula.  "She  may  do  so  again." 

"She  is  not  in  Siberia  now,"  said  Prince  Vasalov,  som 
berly. 

"Then,  where?" 

"In  the  fortress  at  Schlusselburg,  in  solitary  confinement. 
She  has  been  there  for  over  a  decade." 

Frau  Ursula  clasped  her  hands  to  her  bosom  in  dismay. 
She  was  not  a  highly  imaginative  woman,  but  no  great 
reaches  of  fantasy  are  required  to  apprehend  the  horrors  of 
solitary  confinement.  She  had  wished  Madame  von  Estritz 
dead  scores  of  times,  she  had  contemplated  the  possibility  of 
a  Siberian  sentence  with  the  greatest  equanimity;  but,  even 
if  she  had  hated  Varvara  Alexandrovna  a  thousand  times 
more  than  she  had  hated  her  in  her  most  bitter  moments,  she 
would  not  have  wished  to  think  of  Guide's  mother  as  a  cap 
tive  in  a  lonely  cell. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  involuntarily,  and  with  such  genu 
ine  feeling  that  Vasalov  softened  perceptibly.  "I  am  sorry !" 
she  said. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  harsh  fate,"  he  responded,  dismally.  "But 
she  has  borne  it  bravely,  proudly,  nobly  as  becomes  a  daugh 
ter  of  the  Vasalovs." 

Frau  Ursula  stared.    She  said  nothing. 

"She  has  been  fortunate  in  one  thing,"  Vasalov  continued ; 
"she  has  been  able  to  communicate  with  the  outside  world. 
She  has  been  able  to  send  us  secret  messages,  and  to  re 
ceive  secret  messages  in  return.  She  has  dictated  editorials 
for  our  propaganda  leaflets  and  she  keeps  in  close  touch 
with  the  Cause." 

"I  do  not  follow  you.    How  is  that  possible?" 

"I  am  not  at  liberty  to  explain,"  Vasalov  said,  smiling. 
The  method  in  which  she  communicates  with  us  is  a  jeal 
ously  guarded  secret,  and  not  more  than  four  persons  are  in 
the  secret.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  we  receive  these  messages 
from  her,  and  her  last  message,  sent  after  she  had  learned 
that  I  had  fled  to  America,  is  the  message  which  I  have 
come  here  to  deliver  in  person,  and  which  concerns  her 
son." 

Frau  Ursula  steeled  herself  against  a  resurgence  of 
hatred  for  the  woman  who  was  suffering  so  cruelly. 

"May  I  give  you  the  message  now?"  Vasalov  inquired. 


CHILDHOOD  145 

Frau  Ursula  inclined  her  head. 

"First  of  all  Varvara  Alexandrovna  bids  me  thank  you 
for  all  you  have  done  for  her  son.  She  bids  me  say  also 
that  she  is  certain  that  you  have  been  faithful  to  your  trust, 
generously  faithful — she  termed  it.  I  believe  she  expressed 
some  wishes  concerning  the  boy's  education.'"' 

"Yes,  and  they  are  being  closely  observed." 

"She  is  certain  of  that.  Her  faith  in  you  is  sublime.  It 
is  because  of  her  supreme  belief  in  your  goodness  and  nobil 
ity  that  she  ventures  to  trouble  you  once  more  in  relation  to 
the  further  education  of  her  son." 

Truculence  came  back  to  Frau  Ursula's  heart,  but  she 
did  not  allow  her  anger  to  usurp  the  sway  of  mind  and  heart 
as  before. 

"Please  continue,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"It  occurred  to  her,  it  seems,  that  there  was  one  item  of 
her  boy's  education  for  which  she  had  not  provided  in  her 
talk  with  you,  probably  because  it  was  so  self-evident  a 
phase.  It  is  possible  that  you  have  thought  of  it  by  yourself. 
She  desires  particularly  that  I  should  stress  this  point — she 
is  convinced  that  if  you  have  thought  of  it  you  have  also 
provided  for  it.  The  point  is  this.  If  the  boy  is  to  be  of 
any  use  to  Russia  when  he  has  grown  to  manhood,  he  will 
have  to  be  able  to  speak  and  read  and  write  Russian." 

"Ah!"  Frau  Ursula  exclaimed,  her  resentment  again  at 
hightide.  Did  these  people  think  she  was  rearing  the  boy 
in  the  expectation  of  seeing  him  turn  nihilist?  Was  the 
Synthesis  only  a  blind?  Through  her  talks  with  Dr.  Koe- 
nig  she  had  come  to  have  some  little  faith  in  the  Synthetic 
Experiment.  It  might  be  more  of  a  success  than  the  Vasa- 
lovs  wished  or  expected. 

Wisdom  counseled  her  to  be  prudent.  She  did  not  en 
tirely  believe  Vasalov's  asseveration  that  there  was  no  inten 
tion  of  removing  the  boy  from  her  charge.  Her  notion  of 
the  Vasalov  morality  was  very  low,  as  we  know,  and  she 
did  not  doubt  that  men  and  women  who  did  not  stick  at 
murder,  would  not  hesitate  to  lie,  to  deceive,  to  rob  and 
to  kidnap,  if  any  of  these  amiable  diversions  fell  in  with 
their  plans. 

Dmitri  Stepanovich  misunderstood  her  exclamation. 

"I  see  you  have  already  thought  of  it,"  he  exclaimed,  al 
most  joyously. 


i46  THE  HYPHEN 

His  exclamation,  and  the  unconscious  homage  which  it 
tendered  Frau  Ursula,  revealed  a  tacit  assumption  on  his 
part  that  she  was  not  as  violently  out  of  sympathy  with  the 
Cause  as  she  had  at  first  given  him  to  understand.  Pru 
dence  again  counseled  her  to  be  cautious. 

"No,"  she  replied,  carelessly,  "I  did  not  think  of  it.  It  is, 
however,  an  oversight  which  can  easily  be  remedied." 

"You  are  willing  then,  that  Guido  shall  be  taught  Rus 
sian?" 

"Why  not  ?"  she  parried,  with  an  indifference  which  was 
not  wholly  assumed.  She  had  the  love  of  languages  and  of 
lingual  accomplishment  possessed  by  every  cultivated 
European. 

"That  is  very  fine  of  you,"  Vasalov  exclaimed,  heartily. 
"And  you  say  you  are  observing  Varvara  Alexandrovna's 
wishes  in  other  respects,  also  ?" 

"I  am,"  said  Frau  Ursula  frostily.  "You  understand, 
however,  that  Guido  is  very  young.  With  the  assistance  of 
an  old  friend,  a  man  of  exceptional  culture  and  intelligence, 
I  have  mapped  out  a  definite  plan  of  No-Bias  which  I  am 
going  to  practice  actively  in  the  boy's  upbringing." 

"Ah!"  Vasalov  exclaimed.  "You  are  indeed  a  noble 
woman.  Russia,  the  entire  world  may  some  day  stand  your 
debtor  for  what  you  are  doing.  Observe,  if  you  please, 
that  I  ask  no  questions,  demand  no  information  excepting 
such  as  you  may  wish  to  give  me.  Now  that  I  have  met 
you  I  completely  share  my  kinswoman's  faith  in  you.  I 
ask  one  thing  only — may  I  be  permitted  to  select  Guido's 
Russian  teacher?" 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  prolonged,  intense  gaze.  Frau  Ursula 
was  tingling  in  every  nerve  with  excitement.  A  flashing, 
blinding  suspicion  had  taken  possession  of  her.  She  did  not 
doubt  that  Prince  Vasalov  would  select  a  political  refugee, 
like  himself,  to  instruct  the  boy  not  only  in  Russian  but  in 
all  the  odious  commonplace  of  the  "Cause."  Her  impotence 
to  cope  with  the  situation  maddened  her.  She  made  an  al 
most  physical  effort  to  restrain  the  words  of  defiance  which 
were  rising  to  her  lips.  She  must  be  crafty  and  shrewd  and 
meet  deception  with  deceit.  How  opportunely  she  had 
made  her  peace  with  Hauser?  He  would  protect  her  and 
the  boy  and  send  about  his  business  this  gentlemanly  ruffian, 
who,  without  a  doubt,  wished  to  have  her  beautiful  boy  in- 


CHILDHOOD  147 

strutted  in  crime  systematically,  for  she  was  certain,  now 
that  she  had  had  a  moment's  time  to  reflect,  that  the  study 
of  Russian  was  merely  a  subterfuge. 

She  might,  of  course,  refuse  to  allow  him  to  select 
Guide's  teacher.  But  what  would  she  gain?  She  enter 
tained  a  profound  mistrust  for  all  Russians.  The  spirit  of 
mistrust,  of  contempt,  of  hatred  and  vindictiveness  and 
fear  for  and  of  other  races  and  other  peoples  which  is  rife 
in  every  European  country,  which  is  the  moral  pabulum  of 
the  European  grown-up,  and  the  spiritual  pap  on  which  the 
European  child  is  nurtured,  and  has  been  nurtured  for  cen 
turies,  had  not  been  entirely  eliminated  from  Frau  Ursula's 
mental  make-up.  She  no  longer  regarded  Italians,  Span 
iards,  the  French,  the  Irish  with  any  particular  degree  of 
scorn  or  alarm  They  were  human,  like  Germans  and 
Americans,  as  she  had  gleaned  from  her  intercourse  with 
them  while  in  America.  But  it  so  happened  that  she  had  en 
countered  no  Russians  in  America.  Her  experience  with 
Russians  was  limited  to  her  excursion  into  Russia  to  succor 
Varvara  Alexandrovna's  babe.  She  can  hardly  be  blamed 
if  the  experiences  which  befell  her  on  that  expedition  did 
not  raise  her  opinion  of  Russians  in  general. 

So  she  had  gone  on  mistrusting  all  Russians  on  general 
principles.  She  didn't  believe  there  was  a  really  "nice"  Rus 
sian  in  all  America — or  anywhere  else,  for  that  matter.  No, 
decidedly,  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  denying  Vasalov  the 
privilege  of  selecting  Guide's  teacher.  She  supposed  he 
might  be  trusted  to  find  someone  whose  personal  character, 
at  least,  was  good.  It  would  be  unpleasant  to  lock  away  all 
the  silver  plate  and  jewelry  every  time  Guide's  teacher  came 
to  the  house ! 

She  said,  hypocritically: 

"If  you  had  not  suggested  finding  Guido  a  Russian 
teacher,  I  would  have  asked  you  to  do  so." 

"Oh,  thank  you !  Thank  you !"  To  her  intense  amaze 
ment  the  deceitful,  murderous  Russian  became  quite  discur 
sive.  "You  understand,  of  course,  that  I  will  try  to  find  a 
Russian  who  is  thoroughly  familiar  with  the  aspirations  and 
the  work  of  the  Intelligentsia.  Varvara  Alexandrovna  sees 
no  way  of  initiating  her  son  in  the  devious  ways  of  Russian 
Life  and  Russian  Politics  and  of  familiarizing  him  with  the 
rudimentary  problems  which  confront  Russians  to-day  ex- 


i48  THE  HYPHEN 

cepting  in  this  way — through  close  companionship  with  a 
man  who  is  Russian  to  the  very  backbone." 

The  effrontery  of  it!  Frau  Ursula  caught  he  breath. 
She  could  contain  her  indignation  no  longer. 

"In  brief,"  she  said,  "under  guise  of  teaching  Guido  Rus 
sian,  you  intend  to  warp  his  moral  sense.  I'll  never  consent 
to  it,  never!" 

Vasalov  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  Suddenly  he  compre 
hended.  His  pale  face  flushed  angrily,  but  he  regained  his 
self-control  in  a  moment. 

"Permit  me  to  ask,"  he  said  with  the  greatest  urbanity, 
"how  do  you  expect  to  inculcate  in  Guido  an  unbiased  atti 
tude  of  mind  when  you  yourself  are  so  lamentably  biased?" 

"Biased!"  Frau  Ursula's  face  grew  dark  with  anger. 
She  threw  prudence  to  the  winds.  She  no  longer  endeav- 
erod  to  maintain  a  tranquil  appearance.  "Biased!"  she  re 
peated,  furiously.  "You  call  an  honest  aversion  to  crime 
being  biased !"  She  made  many  bitter  and  unjustifiable  ac 
cusations  in  the  fierce  torrent  of  chaotic  anger  with  which 
her  lips  overflowed.  She  said  some  detestable  things.  She 
had  lost  complete  control  of  her  tongue. 

Once  or  twice  Vasalov  bit  his  lips,  but  long  before  Frau 
Ursula  had  finished,  he  was  as  tranquil  and  composed  as 
ever.  His  composure  seemed  as  impervious  to  windy  anger 
as  a  raincoat  is  to  rain. 

"You  misunderstand  us — myself — entirely,"  he  said, 
when  Frau  Ursula  finally  stopped.  "Varvara  Alexan- 
drovna  made  the  proviso  that  although  the  Russian  teacher 
must  be  well  acquainted  with  the  aims  of  the  Intelligentsia, 
he  must  not  be  a  political  refugee,  must  not  be  what  is  com 
monly  called  a  nihilist — although  we  in  Russia  do  not  use 
the  term — must  not  have  dabbled  in  any  political  plots  in 
Russia.  She  made  this  proviso  for  reasons  which  I  do  not 
think  you  are  capable  of  comprehending." 

Vasalov's  insolence  stung  Frau  Ursula  cruelly,  but  she 
determined,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  to  ignore  it  as  com 
pletely  as  he  had  ignored  the  accusations  leveled  against 
himself. 

"I  will  raise  no  objections  to  any  one  who  is  not  a  profes 
sional  in  crime,"  she  said,  contemptuously. 

This  time  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  Vasalov  catch 
his  breath. 


CHILDHOOD  149 

"You  realize,  of  course,"  she  continued,  speaking  with  a 
magnificent  assurance  which  she  was  far  from  feeling,  "that 
it  lies  well  within  my  rights  and  my  power  to  refuse  Var- 
vara  Alexandrovna's  request.  I  promised  her  nothing,  save 
only  that  I  would  care  well  for  the  boy  and  that  I  would  take 
him  to  America.  I  listened  respectfully  to  her  wishes.  I 
am  observing  them,  as  a  matter  of  courtesy.  But  there  is  no 
reason  under  the  sun  why  I  should  further  burden  myself 
by  observing  requests  brought  by  an  emissary  without  any 
credentials  whatsoever.  Nor  did  Varvara  Alexandrovna 
stipulate  for  codicils  to  the  scheme  of  education  which  she 
outlined  to  me,  and  which,  Heaven  knows,  was  complicated 
enough. 

"This  request  can  hardly  be  termed  a  codicil,"  Vasalov 
said,  speaking  quietly.  "A  codicil  alters,  changes  or  modifies 
an  existing  status,  while  this  suggestion  is  absolutely  in  line 
with  previously  expressed  wishes." 

"I  do  not  concede  that.  It  gives  you  people  an  undue  pre 
ponderance." 

"I  think  not.  As  Guido  is  living  in  America  it  is  unavoid 
able  that  he  is  freely  imbibing  the  American  view-point.  He 
lives  among  Germans,  therefore  the  German  viewpoint  is 
not  foreign  to  him " 

"I  protest  against  being  called  a  German.  Both  my  hus 
band  and  myself  are  American  citizens." 

"I  spoke  of  race,  of  course.  Obviously  the  Russian  view 
point  is  being  neglected,  through  no  fault  of  yours.  We 
wish  to  present  it  to  the  lad,  without  unduly  influencing 
him.  I  give  you  my  sacred  promise  on  that  score.  You 
must  see  for  yourself  that  if  the  experiment  is  to  be  a  fair 
one,  and  is  to  be  made  under  test  conditions,  the  boy  must 
have  a  chance  to  become  intimately  acquainted  with  as 
many  different  nationalities  as  possible  and  with  the  politi 
cal  systems  which  they  have  evolved  or  are  in  process  of 
evolving.  Varvara  Alexandrovna's  faith  in  the  Synthesis 
is  phenomenal." 

"And  have  you  faith  in  it  also  ?" 

Prince  Vasalov  considered  this  for  a  moment  before  re 
plying. 

"I  confess,"  he  said,  finally,  "my  faith  was  as  a  mustard 
seed  until  I  saw  the  boy." 


ISO  THE  HYPHEN 

"And  do  you  think— I  am  asking  without  malice — that 
the  boy  will  be  a  partisan  of  your  Cause?" 

"I  am  by  no  means  certain  of  that.  The  boy  has  enthu 
siasm,  certainly,  but  his  enthusiasm  seems  to  run  riot.  It 
is  ubiquitous  and  undiscriminating.  It  fastens  upon  every 
subject  that  is  broached.  His  appetite  for  life  is  tremen 
dous.  Quite  tremendous.  As  yet  his  enthusiasm  lacks 
focus  completely.  This  may  due  to  his  extreme  youth,  to 
lack  of  direction,  or  again,  it  may  be  a  temperamental  pecu 
liarity,  reaching  back  to  some  forgotten  Russian  forbear, 
for  enthusiasm  running  wild  is  a  distinctly  Russian  trait. 
However,  it  does  not  follow  from  all  this  that  his  enthusiasm 
is  not  capable  of  being  focused.  I  believe  it  is — for  the 
boy  has  rare  intelligence.  But  even  if  this  should  be  so, 
it  does  not  mean  that  he  will  embrace  our  views."  Vasalov 
came  to  a  dead  stop,  but  Frau  Ursula  perceived  that  he  had 
something  more  to  say  and  waited  patiently  for  him  to  re 
sume.  Her  respect  for  his  mentality  had  grown  apace  with 
his  words.  His  analysis  of  Guide's  salient  characteristic 
was  eerily  true;  she  herself  could  not  have  bettered  it  in 
substance;  she  herself,  she  was  generous  enough  to  admit, 
could  not  have  presented  it  so  pithily. 

"You  realize,  of  course,"  Vasalov  continued  presently, 
"that  both  Varvara  Alexandrovna  and  Guido  von  Estritz 
were  violent  partisans.  But  because  they  were  honest  and 
well-meaning  and  respected  each  other  very  thoroughly, 
both  hoped  that  their  offspring  should  effect  a  Synthesis 
rather  than  become  a  votary  of  any  one  existing  culture. 
And  I  need  not  add,  I  hope,  that  Guide's  mother  was  as  sin 
cere  in  this  desire  as  his  father  was.  So  you  perceive,  v er- 
ehrte  Frau,  that  if  I  were  to  endeavor  to  make  a  Russophile 
of  the  lad,  I  would  be  faithless  to  my  mission.  I  trust,  after 
all  I  have  said,  that  you  will  abandon  your  very  evident  mis 
trust  of  myself." 

He  rose  to  go.  As  he  stood  there,  she  noted  the  comeliness 
of  his  person,  the  fine  distinction  of  his  beautifully  modeled 
face.  And  again  she  was  struck  by  the  strong  resemblance 
which  he  bore  to  his  cousin. 

"I  hope  to  find  a  Russian  tutor  within  a  week  or  so,"  he 
said.  "May  I  see  the  boy  before  I  go?" 

"He  has  had  enough  excitement  for  one  day,"  said  Frau 
Ursula  evasively. 


CHILDHOOD  151 

"Just  as  you  say,"  said  Vasalov  politely. 

She  regretted  her  petty  display  of  power  over  the  child's 
person  immediately,  but  Vasalov  did  not  remonstrate  with 
her  as  she  had  expected  he  would  do.  He  took  his  leave 
with  out  offering  any  comment. 

Guido  came  storming  into  the  room,  crammed  with  ques 
tions  and  with  disappointment. 

"You  must  not  tease  me  to-night,  Guido,"  Frau  Ursula 
said,  petulantly,  "I  am  very  tired.  I  will  send  Mrs.  Thorn 
ton  to  you  as  soon  as  she  gets  home.  Now  go  to  your  room 
and  don't  bother  me." 

Guido  looked  at  his  mother  in  amazement.  Never  had 
she  spoken  to  him  so  summarily  before.  He  obeyed  her 
instantly,  however,  and  Frau  Ursula  was  free  to  seek  the 
seclusion  of  her  own  room. 

Her  rasped  nerves  cried  imperiously  for  solitude.  Her 
heart  was  a  battle-field,  her  mind  tempest-tossed.  All  her 
native  poise  was  turned  awry  by  the  unexpected  advent  of 
Dmitri  Stepanovich.  Had  ever  a  woman  been  tried  as 
sorely  as  herself?  For  a  few  minutes  she  indulged  in  the 
luxury  of  self-pity  and  hatred  for  the  Vasalovs,  mischievous 
associates  that  vitiated  her  morality  to  the  extent  of  per 
mitting  her  to  entertain  the  idea  of  proclaiming  Dmitri 
Stepanovich  an  impostor  and  handing  him  over  to  the  police 
for  attempted  intimidation. 

Then,  through  the  unlovely  maze  of  sinister  thoughts 
there  struggled  the  vision  of  a  woman  who,  when  Frau  Ur 
sula  had  last  seen  her,  had  been  young  and  as  attractive  as 
herself,  with  a  babe  at  her  breast,  terror-stricken  for  her 
babe's  sake,  strangely  composed  and  courageous  as  to  any 
fate  that  awaited  herself.  She  tried  to  picture  Varvara 
Alexandrovna  now,  twelve  years  later,  immured  in  a  dim 
and  probably  foul  dungeon,  living  on  coarse,  insufficient 
food,  clad  in  hideous,  inadequate  garments,  destitute  of 
every  comfort  and  every  decency  of  life,  yet  preserving 
throughout  the  harrowing  ordeal  an  unshaken  faith  in  the 
cause  for  which  she  was  suffering,  and  a  mind  so  alert  and 
luminous  that  from  her  tiny  cell  she  sent  out  messages  and 
instructions  which  re-echoed  throughout  Russia — perhaps 
throughout  the  world. 

Her  anger  was  quenched.  She  could  not,  she  dared  not 
disregard  a  wish  expressed  by  a  woman  suffering  such  a 


152  THE  HYPHEN 

martyrdom.  And  for  that  martyred  woman's  sake,  for  the 
sake  of  herself  and  of  Guide's  father  as  well,  she  would  see 
to  it  that  there  was  fair  play.  For  she  did  not  trust  Vasalov 
in  spite  of  his  professions  of  good  faith.  She  would  watch 
the  Russian  tutor  selected  by  Vasalov  carefully  and  review 
Guido's  lessons,  a  task  easy  of  accomplishment,  for  the  lad 
was  in  the  habit  of  telling  her  in  detail  every  occurrence  of 
his  uneventfully  important  day. 

She  changed  to  a  housedress  and  went  to  the  dining-room 
to  inquire  after  the  progress  dinner  was  making.  To  her 
surprise  she  found  her  husband  sitting  at  his  own  place  at 
the  table,  his  folded  hands  before  him  crushing  down  the 
unread  evening  paper. 

"Who  was  your  visitor?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

"Prince  Vasalov,"  she  said.  "How  did  you  know  some 
one  was  here?" 

"I  came  home  early — heard  your  voice  and  a  man's — you 
seemed  terribly  stirred.  I  kept  out  of  the  room  purposely." 

The  excitement  which  had  stirred  Frau  Ursula  earlier  in 
the  afternoon,  returned. 

"I  hate  him,"  she  said,  bitterly.  "I  think  he  is  as  wicked 
and  as  unscrupulous  as  a  man  can  be.  It  is  fortunate  that 
you  did  not  come  into  the  room.  I  should  have  been 
tempted  to  ask  you  to  throw  him  out." 

"Beastly  impudence  to  come  here  at  all  now.  How  did 
he  find  out  your  whereabouts  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied,  blankly.  "I  never  thought 
to  ask  him.  Probably  he  traced  me  through  the  bank  in 
which  Varvara  Alexandrovna's  money  was  deposited." 

"What  did  he  want?" 

"Guido  is  to  learn  Russian,"  she  replied,  gloomily.  "I 
hate  the  idea  of  it — not  of  his  studying  Russian,  of  course, 
but  of  the  leverage  which  the  Vasalovs  thus  obtain  for 
launching  their  ideas  into  the  impressionable  mind  of  the 
boy.  I  hate  this  interference.  I  hate  him.  I  hate  his 
claiming  the  privilege  of  selecting  the  tutor." 

"Claiming!"  Hauser  exclaimed,  with  an  oath.  "The 
fellow  has  no  right  to  claim  anything  whatever.  I  hope 
you  told  him  so." 

"How  could  I?  After  all,  he  represents  Guido's 
mother." 

Hauser,  unaccountably,  was  here  seized  with  a  spasm 


CHILDHOOD  153 

of  such  black  fury  that  Frau  Ursula  shrank  back  abashed. 

"If  the  scoundrel  dares  to  come  here  again  I'll  break 
his  neck  for  him,"  he  shouted,  "and  spare  the  Russian 
police  the  trouble."  He  sprang  from  his  chair,  and  pushed 
it  away  angrily. 

"Nothing  would  please  me  better,"  Frau  Ursula  ex 
claimed,  with  great  earnestness.  "But,  of  course,  that  would 
never  do."  They  were  standing  close  together,  near  the 
mantle.  "Oh,  Erich,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  with  sudden 
abandon,  "I  am  so  miserable." 

Without  a  word  he  drew  her  protectively  into  the  circle 
of  his  arm  and  she  rested  her  head  against  his  shoulder, 
deriving  from  that  position  a  sense  of  support  and  comfort 
which  filled  her  with  amazement.  Did  she  care  for  him 
so  much  as  all  that?  How  blind,  how  willfully  blind  and 
unkind  she  had  been  both  to  him  and  to  herself. 

"Why  did  he  have  to  come  to-day  of  all  days  ?"  Hauser's 
wife  pursued,  presently.  "We  were  so  happy  at  last,  you 
and  I.  Never  mind,  we  will  be  happy  anyhow.  And  if 
he  is  inclined  to  molest  me,  I  will  leave  you  to  deal  with 
him.  You  will,  won't  you,  Erich  dear?" 

She  felt  his  clasp  upon  her  waist  tighten  convulsively. 

"I  thank  God  you  take  that  view  of  it,  Ursula,"  he  said 
with  a  solemnity  which  seemed  to  her  exaggerated. 
"Try  not  to  worry  about  him.  His  rascality  seems  to 
know  no  bounds.  If  hecomes  again  I'll  settle  him  once 
for  all." 

Frau  Ursula  did  not  reply.  But  she  lifted  her  head 
from  her  husband's  shoulder,  and  gently  drew  away  from 
his  arms.  A  strange  inflection  in  his  voice,  certain  phrases 
which  he  used,  certain  words  as  well,  pierced  through  her 
self-centeredness  at  last.  Hauser's  attitude  was  that  of 
a  man  who  has  suffered  a  personal  affront.  Why  should 
he  feel  thus  toward  Dmitri  Stepanovich?  He  had  not  the 
motive  which  she  had.  He  had  no  motive  whatever  ex 
cepting  vicarious  interest,  for  her  sake,  in  Guide's  wel 
fare,  and  until  now  his  interest  in  the  boy  had  not  been 
very  keen.  Why  then  should  he  indulge  in  such  caustic 
language  ? 

"How  long  since  you  saw  Vasalov  last?"  Hauser  in 
quired. 

"Why,  I've  never  seen  him  before." 


154  THE  HYPHEN 

"Ursula!"  Hauser's  tone  was  the  one  of  a  man  to 
whom  the  final  outrage  has  been  offered.  "Never  seen 
him  before!  Oh,  well,  never  mind.  Let's  talk  of  some 
thing  else." 

Frau  Ursula  was  sorely  perplexed.  Hauser's  friendship 
and  affection  which  but  a  minute  earlier  had  lapped  her 
about  like  a  warm  breath  of  air,  like  the  fragrance  of 
violets  in  a  warm  room,  strengthening  and  heartening  her, 
now,  owing  to  some  occult  reason,  was  in  abeyance.  A 
strange  fear  took  hold  of  her.  She  did  not  desire  to  probe 
to  the  root  of  this  change.  She  desired  to  restore  their 
former  status. 

"Erich,"  she  said,  appealingly,  "I  am  so  terribly  afraid. 
I  am  afraid  this  man  is  going  to  try  and  kidnap  Guido." 

"Why  should  he  wish  to  do  that?" 

"You  see  what  value  they  attach  to  the  child  and  to 
his  education." 

Hauser,  instead  of  replying,  strode  up  and  down  the 
room  looking  distraught  and  angry. 

"Let's  talk  of  something  else,"  he  said,  suddenly,  in  a 
thick,  strained  voice. 

"Erich!"  She  approached  him,  and  placed  her  hand 
upon  his  sleeve.  Instantly  he  became  calmer,  and — so  it 
seemed  to  her,  more  kindly  disposed. 

"Erich,  I  am  so  sorry  this  has  happened.  Be  patient  with 
me.  I  am  terribly  frightened.  The  Russians  are  such 
daredevils." 

"If  this  particular  Russian  daredevil  comes  here  again  I 
will  thrash  him  within  an  inch  of  his  life,  and,  believe 
me,  my  dear,  that  will  settle  it." 

"I  wish  I  felt  as  sure  as  you  do  that  there  will  be  no 
attempt  to  steal  the  boy  from  me " 

"Of  course  there  won't  be,"  Hauser  cried.  He  was 
terribly  wrought  upon.  He  seemed  like  a  man  from  whom 
the  last  vestige  of  self-control  had  suddenly  dropped  away. 
"You  exaggerate  the  boy's  importance  because  you  love 
him.  I  do  not  blame  you  for  that.  Every  mother  does  it. 
It  is  nature's  way  of  making  sure  that  the  babies  will  be 
properly  cared  for.  If  Vasalov  really  thought  the  boy  so 
important,  he  would  never  have  deserted  you  and  the  child. 
He  is  making  of  the  boy's  mythical  importance  a  subter 
fuge  to  get  near  you  again.  But  you're  my  wife.  And  you 


CHILDHOOD  155 

love  me.  You  told  me  to-day,  within  the  hour,  within  the 
minute  that  you  love  me.  Let  him  try — just  let  him  try!" 

The  sensation  which  swept  over  Frau  Ursula  as  the 
full  meaning  of  Hauser's  unintentional  innuendo,  wrung 
from  him  by  excess  of  emotion,  dawned  upon  her,  can 
better  be  imagined  than  described.  For  a  moment  she 
was  completely  dazed.  Then,  when  her  vision  cleared, 
and  she  found  herself  standing  in  the  familiar  dining- 
room,  with  Hauser  at  her  side,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  re 
turned  from  a  long  journey  through  uncharted  space. 

"You  think  Guido  is  my  child?"  she  forced  herself  to 
stammer  out.  The  thing  seemed  so  preposterous,  so 
asinine,  that  she  expected  a  vehement  denial  from  him. 
But  he  did  not  reply.  The  expression  on  his  face  was 
the  expression  of  a  man  in  extreme  pain.  "You  thought 
Vasalov  was  my  lover?  You  thought  I  had  invented 
Varvara  Alexandrovna  and  Guido  von  Estritz  and  the 
Synthesis — just  to  save  my  reputation?" 

From  a  pasty  white  Hauser's  face  turned  a  dull  brick- 
red. 

"I  didn't  want  you  to  know  that  I  suspected  the  truth," 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice  of  entreaty.  "I  understood  thor 
oughly  what  a  horrible  thing  it  was  for  a  woman  reared 
as  you  had  been  to  find  herself  in  such  a  predicament.  I 
did  not  blame  you.  My  word  for  it.  I  pitied  you  im 
measurably.  I  admired  you,  too,  for  your  cleverness  and 
shrewdness  in  inventing  the  story  of  the  Synthesis.  Be 
cause  I  did  not  wish  to  humiliate  or  mortify  you,  I  pre 
tended  to  believe  your  story.  Sometimes,  when  I  realized 
that  the  fellow — whoever  he  was — still  possessed  your 
love,  I  could  have  committed  murder.  But  I  was  never 
angry  with  you,  Ursula,  never.  All  I  felt  for  you  was  a 
pity  deeper  than  I  can  find  words  to  express." 

He  had  spoken  with  a  noble  simplicity,  a  sort  of  homely 
grandeur.  Of  this  Hauser's  wife  was  aware,  even  while 
she  answered,  breathing  convulsively: 

"And  thinking  me  that  sort  of  a  woman  you  married 
me?  Thinking  that  of  me  you  accepted  money  from  me? 
Where  did  you  think  the  money  came  from?  My  lover? 
Oh!  Erich,  were  you  as  base  as  that?" 

"Don't!"  he  cried,  pleadingly.  "Don't!"  He  put  up 
his  hands  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow. 


IS6  THE  HYPHEN 

"Oh,"  she  cried  in  an  agonized  voice,  "this  is  all  so 
sordid  and  so  low !  To  think  that  less  than  five  minutes 
ago  I  clung  to  you,  I  kissed  the  lips  that  now  insult  me 
so  grossly." 

"Ursula,"  cried  the  man,  "for  heaven's  sake,  stop.  Don't 
say  any  more  now.  You  are  angry.  You'll  say  things  you 
you  do  not  mean." 

"I'll  say  things  I  do  mean.  I'll  say  things  I  am  too 
kind  to  say  unless  anger  wrenches  them  from  me.  I  de 
spise  you.  I  have  always  despised  you.  You're  a  climber, 
a  sordid,  mercenary  climber.  And  I  hate  you.  I  hate 
you,"  she  concluded. 

She  had  worked  herself  into  such  a  state  of  hysterical 
irresponsibility  that  for  the  moment  she  actually  believed 
the  folly  she  was  uttering.  And  yet  she  did  not  hate 
Hauser.  She  had  not  hated  him  for  months,  and  she 
would  never  hate  him  again.  She  had  looked  too  deep 
into  his  heart.  She  had  glimpsed  there  such  unbounded 
kindness  and  illimitable  love  for  herself  that  she  would 
have  been  less  than  human  if  she  had  given  him  hatred 
in  return.  But  it  is  by  no  means  incompatible  with  woman's 
psychology  to  feel  love  and  to  feign  hatred. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said,  very  quietly,  "you  do  not  hate  me. 
You  do  not  even  despise  me.  You  know  that  I  have  told 
you  the  truth  just  now — that  I  esteem  you  as  highly  as 
if  this  thing  had  never  happened — as  if  Vasalov — and 
Guido — had  never  existed." 

"You  forgive  me,  I  suppose  "  she  demanded,  with  superb 
irony. 

"Oh,  come  now,"  he  said,  kindly.  "I  have  never,  not 
even  in  thought,  used  that  expression.  And  you  know  it." 

"Apparently  you  still  believe  that  Guido  is  my  child  and 

that  consequently,  I  was  a  ."  She  concluded  her 

sentence  with  a  word  that  brought  the  blood  to  Hauser's 
cheek.  Saintly  women,  in  their  handling  of  vicious  affairs 
often  lapse  into  indecorum  of  language.  It  is  with  them 
a  token  of  crowning  contempt  to  use  no  fair  and  seemly 
words  in  speaking  of  the  seamy  side  of  life. 

Hauser  winced. 

"You've  said  nothing  to  disprove  my  suspicion,"  he  re 
minded  her,  tolerantly. 


CHILDHOOD  157 

"No.  Nor  shall  I  lower  myself  to  your  level  by  dis 
proving  it,  as  I  could  do,  if  I  wished  to." 

"Ursula!"  There  was  a  new  note  in  his  voice.  Was 
it  hope?  Or  retaliation?  Or  rancor?  "I  have  been  very 
patient  with  you  throughout  a  good  many  years,  and  I 
have  been  very  patient  with  you  now.  If  you  can  disprove 
this — if  Guido  is  not  your  child  and  if  Vasalov  has  never 
been  your  lover,  I  think  you  owe  it  to  me  to  submit  me  the 
proofs." 

She  flared  up  anew. 

"Proofs!"  she  cried.  "Proofs!  Believe  what  you  wish. 
What  you  think  matters  nothing  to  me.  The  contempt  of 
the  contemptible  cannot  touch  me." 

"Have  a  care!"  He  was  angered  at  last.  "You  are 
my  wife.  You  bear  my  name.  You  enjoy  my  protection. 
I  repeat,  I  have  the  right  to  demand  the  proofs  to  which 
you  refer  and  I  do  demand  them  now." 

He  realized,  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken,  that  he  could 
not  have  chosen  more  unfortunate  words.  By  continued 
pleading  and  kindness  he  might  have  swayed  her,  might 
have  touched  her  heart  and  forced  her  to  concede  the 
nobility  of  his  conduct  in  spite  of  the  surface  ripples  of 
sordidness  and  self-interest  which  he  could  not  gainsay. 
But  he  had  made  the  fatal  mistake  of  showing  masterful 
ness  at  the  wrong  moment.  He  had  domineered  when  he 
should  have  entreated  and  argued.  He  went  white  with 
apprehension  of  what  was  coming. 

"You  demand  them!"  she  sneered.  She  laughed  cruelly, 
hideously.  He  barely  recognized  his  sweet  and  gentle  Ur 
sula.  "  You  have  a  right  to  nothing.  You  were  paid — well 
paid — for  deigning  to  rehabilitate  a  fallen  woman.  Witness 
your  present  prosperity!  No,  Erich,  you  have  a  right  to 
nothing  excepting  to  the  shekels  which  your  wife's  shame 
has  brought  you." 

Her  voice  broke  into  a  sob.  Hauser  stared  at  her,  bewil 
dered,  non-plused,  perplexed.  For  a  moment  he  had  enter 
tained  the  tremendous  hope  that  she  would  clear  herself. 
Now  she  had  thrust  him  back  into  utter  darkness.  The 
gloom  of  his  uncertainty  was  more  cruel  than  before.  It 
merged  suddenly  into  the  still  more  sinister  gloom  of  cer 
tainty. 

She  was  guilty,  of  course  she  was  guilty!   As  if  it  mat- 


158  THE  HYPHEN 

tered!  It  had  never  really  mattered  to  him,  since  he  loved 
her  with  a  true  and  an  honest  love.  Why  couldn't  she  com 
prehend  that?  Why  were  women  so  unreasonable?  Why, 
being  so  unreasonable,  were  men  condemned  to  love  these 
frail  ajid  emotionally  shifting  creatures? 

He  came  to  with  a  start.  He  was  crumpling  the  news 
paper  in  his  hands,  rolling  it  up  into  an  enormous,  con 
torted  ball.  And  he  was  alone.  The  door  was  just  closing 
behind  his  wife. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  proof  of  her  innocence  which  Frau  Ursula  had  al 
luded  to  was  a  proof  so  slenderly  proportioned  that 
Hauser,  more  likely,  than  not,  would  have  rejected  it  as  in 
sufficient.  What  Frau  Ursula  had  referred  to  was  the  da 
guerreotype  of  the  first  Guido  given  her  by  Dr.  Koenig  and 
to  Dr.  Koenig's  procurable  testimony  that  the  founder  of 
the  American  branch  of  the  von  Estritz  family  had  not  been 
a  mythical  character. 

False  pride  forbade  any  endeavor  at  vindication.  Her 
love  for  Hauser  was  again  overlaid  with  hatred,  strangest 
platina  of  all  for  the  gentlest  passion  that  can  move  the  hu 
man  heart.  How  can  hatred  fasten  itself  to  love  ?  Can  the 
paradox  be  explained  by  saying  that  the  impurities  of  love 
are  drawn  to  the  surface  where  they  can  do  the  least  harm, 
corroding  and  disfiguring  only  that  which  is  visible  to  all, 
and  leaving  the  inner  shrine  unvexed  and  intact  ? 

Days  of  misery  followed  both  for  Frau  Ursula  and  for 
Hauser.  Hauser  effaced  himself  as  much  as  possible,  eat 
ing  an  early  breakfast,  which  he  insisted  on  preparing  him 
self,  as  old  Kaetchen  did  not  appear  before  seven,  and  often 
returning  to  his  home  long  after  midnight.  On  Sundays  he 
made  much  ado  over  business  engagements  in  the  city. 
There  was,  as  yet,  no  change  in  his  manner  toward  his  wife 
and  Guido  upon  the  few  occasions  when  he  had  come  in 
contact  with  his  family. 

Frau  Ursula  lived  in  hourly  terror  lest  Vasalov  reappear 
on  the  scene.  ,She  feared  that  Hauser  might  carry  out  his 
threat  and,  inadvertently,  kill  the  Russian.  She  feared,  al 
most  as  much,  or  more,  that  Vasalov  might  make  a  success 
ful  effort  to  abduct  Guido.  She  did  not  dare  broach  either 
subject  to  Hauser.  And  yet  she  had  never  longed  for  his 
support  and  guidance  as  she  longed  for  them  in  these  bitter 
days.  She  suffered  sudden  accesses  of  softness  in  the  pri 
vacy  of  her  own  room ;  then  she  would  hold  long  imaginary 
conversations  with  her  husband,  gently  persuading  him  to 

159 


160  THE  HYPHEN 

realize  the  injustice  he  had  done  her.  At  the  end  of  such 
an  interview  she  would  weep  unrestrainedly  but  silently 
upon  her  pillow.  The  ghostly  session  over,  she  lapsed  either 
into  diffidence  or  into  hardness,  chiefly  the  latter.  She  could 
not  forgive  Hauser  for  suspecting  her  of  the  unforgivable 
sin. 

Vasalov  appeared  about  ten  days  later  with  a  very  fair, 
emaciated,  gentle-eyed  and  soft-voiced  youth  of  about  three- 
and-twenty  in  tow,  whom  he  introduced  as  Sergius  Ivano- 
vich  Dobronov. 

Young  Dobronov  conveyed  an  impression  of  general 
grayness  which  was  somewhat  disconcerting.  His  eyes  fluc 
tuated  between  gray  and  slate,  his  hair  was  so  very  fair  as 
to  appear  blond  or  grayish,  according  to  the  angle  at  which 
the  light  fell  upon  it,  and  his  complexion  partook  of  the 
general  color  scheme — or  lack-of-color  scheme — which  na 
ture  seemed  to  have  mapped  out  for  him.  His  manners  were 
irreproachable  and  he  spoke  German  perfectly,  very  much 
better  than  Vasalov. 

Frau  Ursula  eyed  him  suspiciously.  She  tried  to  per 
suade  herself  that  she  thought  him  capable  of  any  villiany. 
Assassination  might  be  the  least  and  the  sweetest  of  his  evil 
practices.  She  remembered  reading  about  the  strange  re 
ligious  sects  which  flourish  in  Russia,  the  communicants  of 
which  pollute  the  conception  of  religion  by  following  ob 
scene  and  abominable  rites  ostensibly  in  its  observance. 
What,  after  all,  did  she  know  of  Vasalov  ?  He  might  be  an 
impostor,  although  she  did  not  think  so.  He  might  be  con 
niving  with  this  man  to  secure  him  access  to  Guido's  person 
for  heaven  only  knows  what  baleful  purposes. 

She  decided  to  be  so  rude  to  him  that  he  would  refuse  to 
teach  Guido  Russian. 

"I  suppose  Prince  Vasalov  has  initiated  you  into  the  com 
plex  system  with  which  Guido's  education  is  hedged  about." 

"Jawohl,  verehrte  Frau,"  the  young  man  replied  in  his  al 
most  metallically  clear  German. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  want  to  say  to  you  m  the  presence 
of  his  mother's  cousin,"  she  continued.  "I  l;ave  sedulously 
avoided  introducing  into  his  life  any  influence  that  would 
create  a  strong  bias  in  favor  of  any  theological  creed  or  any 
political  faith.  I  am  equally  determined  that  no  influence 
shall  impinge  upon  his  life  tending  to  create  a  homicidal 


CHILDHOOD  161 

mania  such  as  possessed  his  mother  and  the  Prince  and 
no  doubt  possesses  yourself." 

The  young  man,  to  Frau  Ursula's  surprise,  instead  of 
being  affronted,  burst  out  laughing.  It  was  a  frank, 
honest,  wholesome  laugh,  and  from  the  moment  she  heard 
it,  Frau  Ursula's  heart  went  out  to  the  young  fellow. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Dobronov  said.  "It  was  very  rude, 
indeed,  of  me  to  laugh.  But  your  misconception  of  my 
character  is  so  flagrant,  verehrte  Frau."  He  stopped,  smiled 
broadly  and  relapsed  into  silence. 

"I  will  not  attempt  to  defend  myself  against  your  charge, 
Frau  Hauser,"  said  Vasalov,  good-naturedly.  "Were  I  to 
do  so,  Sergius  Ivanovich  would  outrival  yourself  in  con 
demning  the  violent  measures  espoused  by  Varvara  Alex- 
androvna  and  myself  in  our  fight  for  Russian  freedom." 

"Then "  Partially  concilated,  Frau  Ursula  glanced 

questioningly  at  Dobronov.  She  liked  this  lad — he  was 
little  more — liked  him  immensely. 

"Sergius  Ivanovich  is  a  Dukhobor,"  said  Vasalov. 

"And  what  may  that  be  ?"  she  demanded. 

But  before  Vasalov  could  explain  the  meaning  of  the 
formidable  word,  Dobronov  exclaimed,  with  great  energy: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Dmitri  Stepanovich,  I  am  not  a 
Dukhobor." 

"You  are  certainly  not  behaving  like  one  now,"  Vasalov 
rejoined,  smiling  broadly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  pale  youth,  with  sudden 
meekness.  It  was  Frau  Ursula's  turn  to  smile.  Apparently 
Dobronov  prefaced  every  remark  with  a  request  for  for 
giveness.  There  certainly  was  nothing  formidable  about 
him.  She  felt  entirely  reassured. 

"And  what  may  a  Dukhobor  be?"  she  inquired  again. 

"I  refused  to  be  classified,"  Dobronov  sang  out,  wildly 
excited  again.  "I  absolutely  refuse  to  be  labeled." 

Vasalov  smiled  subtly. 

"The  Dukhobors  would  certainly  object — if  they  ever  do 
so  strenuous  a  thing  as  that — to  having  you  ranked  with 
them,  if  you  continue  in  this  fashion." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Dobronov,  meek  once  more. 
"I  am  not  living  up  to  my  principles  just  now,  it  is  true." 

"But  what  is  a  Dukhobor?"  Frau  Ursula  inquired  for 
the  third  time,  her  interest  now  thoroughly  aroused. 


162  THE  HYPHEN 

"The  Dukhobors  are  a  religious  sect  of  Russia,"  Vasalov 
repoined,  "whose  chief  tenet  is  the  doctrine  of  non-resist 
ance,  a  doctrine  which  our  friend  Dobronov  subscribes  to 
with  all  his  heart.  They  will  suffer  imprisonment,  stripes 
and  banishment  sooner  than  carry  arms  or  submit  to  con 
scription.  They  never  oppose  force  to  force.  They  bow 
to  cruelty,  harshness,  persecution,  but  they  do  not  strike 
back.  They  will  suffer  a  thousand  deaths  sooner  than 
dream  of  killing  anyone.  And  they  carry  the  principle  into 
every-day  life.  Thus,  for  instance,  if  you  were  to  take 
it  into  your  head  to  be  rude  to  Sergius  Ivanovich,  a  pos 
sibility  which,  since  you  are  a  woman  of  breeding,  could 
not  arise,  he  would  smile  and  bow  and  thank  you,  but 
never  be  rude  in  return." 

Frau  Ursula  put  her  tongue  against  her  teeth.  Vasalov's 
adroitness  in  rebuking  her  showed  him  to  be  more  of  man 
of  the  world  than  she  had  suspected.  She  had  been  at  no 
pains  to  disguise  the  low  regard  in  which  she  held  his 
morality,  perhaps  his  mentality  as  well.  He  had  taken  these 
means  of  correcting  her  perspective. 

"I  imagine  you  are  taking  too  flattering  a  view  of  my 
incapacity  for  rudeness,"  she  replied.  "I  am  going  to  ask 
a  question  now  which  may  offend  you.  If  so,  I  beg  of  you 
to  excuse  my  rudeness  on  the  ground  that  I  am  seriously 
seeking  enlightenment." 

Vasalov  bowed  to  indicate  that  he  was  at  her  service. 

"You,"  she  began,  "are  not  a  Dukhobor,  I  take  it?" 

"Hardly,"  Vasalov  replied.  "The  Dukhobors  are  Chris 
tians.  I  am  an  atheist." 

Frau  Ursula  shivered.  A  self-confessed  assassin  and 
atheist !  And  he  smiled  and  talked  and  walked  and  doubt 
less  ate  and  slept  and  loved  like  other  men. 

"How  then  can  you  two,  who  hold  such  divergent  views, 
be  friends?"  she  inquired. 

"Our  views  are  not  as  divergent  as  they  seem  at  first 
glance,"  Vasalov  replied.  "We  both  believe  in  the  Uni 
versal  Brotherhood  of  Man.  We  differ  in  the  methods  we 
pursue  to  achieve  that  Universal  Brotherhood." 

"Can  an  atheist  believe  in  the  Brotherhood  of  Man?"  she 
inquired. 

"Why  not?  Ah,  I  see.  You  think  that  a  belief  in 
Brotherhood  presupposes  a  belief  in  Fatherhood.  Some 


CHILDHOOD  163 

of  us  go  so  far  as  to  believe  that  even  the  earthly  father 
may  dispensed  with.  Madame,  I  meant  nothing  frivolous 
or  light!"  Vasalov  appended,  hastily,  on  perceiving  Frau 
Ursula's  scandalized  face.  "What  I  meant  was,  of  course, 
that  there  are  those  who  believe  that  in  the  simple  com 
munistic  societies,  which  would  take  the  place  of  the  present 
complex  state,  all  children  should  be  reared  and  educated 
together,  enjoying  the  same  advantages,  the  same  privileges, 
the  same  rights  irrespective  of  parenthood.  This,  we  be 
lieve,  would  be  the  safest  guarantee  devisable  against  a 
renascence  of  the  present  corrupt,  reprehensible  civilization 
with  which  the  entire  world  is  afflicted  to-day." 

All  this  was  Greek  to  Frau  Ursula.  To  deflect  the  con 
versation  into  simpler  channels,  she  inquired: 

"Do  I  understand  .that  the  Dukhobors  are  socialists  ?" 

"Something  very  much  like  it,"  said  Vasalov.  But  Do- 
bronov  again  became  intensely  excited. 

"I  am  not  a  socialist,"  shouted  the  apostle  of  non-re 
sistance.  "I  refuse  to  be  classified.  This  mania  for  label 
ing  human  beings  as  if  they  were  geological  specimens  is 
at  the  root  of  most  of  the  trouble  in  the  world." 

Frau  Ursula  was  struck  by  this  remark.  These  Russians, 
although  a  little  unhinged — ein  bischen  uebergeschnappt — 
possessed  thinking  apparatuses  not  to  be  despised. 

Vasalov  smiled  indulgently. 

"If  Sergius  Ivanovich  did  not  object  to  being  classified," 
he  said,  "I  might  be  tempted  to  describe  him  as  an 
anarchist." 

"I  am  an  anarchist  in  a  way,  of  course,"  grumbled  the 
Condemner  of  Dissent,  "though  I  hate  to  be  called  so.  I 
detest  all  labels.  Labeling  human  beings  as  this  or  that 
makes  them  unfree.  Immediately  a  man  has  proclaimed 
himself  a  socialist  or  an  anarchist,  he  feels  himself  obli 
gated  to  maintain  the  opinions  to  which  he  has  subscribed 
in  the  face  of  all  opposition.  If  anyone  differs  with  him, 
the  devil  of  obstinacy  is  roused  in  him.  He  may  see  that 
there  is  truth  and  soundness  of  reasoning  in  what  the 
other  chap  says,  but  self-love  and  vanity  silence  reason  and 
conscience,  and  he  may  find  himself  defending  principles 
in  which  he  no  longer  believes  simply  because  he  is  too 
proud  or  too  vain  to  recant." 

"There's  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  what  you  say,  Prince 


164  THE  HYPHEN 

Dobronov,"  said  Vasalov.  "Do  you  not  think  so?"  he 
inquired  of  Frau  Ursula. 

"Prince  Dobronov!"  Frau  Ursula  exclaimed,  amazed  at 
the  sudden  cropping  up  of  the  unexpected  title.  Were  all 
Russians  princes  or  dukes  or  counts? 

"Dmitri  Stepanovich,  it's  too  bad  of  you  to  give  me  away 
like  that,"  wailed  the  advocate  of  supine  submission.  "You 
know  I  detest  titles.  Titles  are  as  bad  as  labels.  They 
are  labels  of  the  most  pernicious  character,  labels  that  are 
foisted  upon  us  at  birth  whether  we  have  earned  them 
or  not.  Can  a  man  be  born  a  thief?  Or  a  doctor?  Or  a 
jurist?  I  appeal  to  your  common-sense,  Madame.  Then 
how  can  a  man  be  born  a  prince?  It's  manifestly  absurd. 
A  civilization  that  decks  itself  out  in  such  tinsel  and  paste 
is  a  bedizened  Jezebel.  I  will  none  of  it.  If  men  loved 
one  another  as  He  commanded  them  to  do,  the  civilization 
reared  by  the  human  race  would  know  no  restraints  ex 
cepting  those  imposed  by  Christ's  will  and  attained  through 
Him.  And  if  men  respected  one  another's  rights,  as  reason 
as  well  as  love  bids  us  do,  the  civilization  evolved  by  the 
human  race  would  need  no  restraints  at  all." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  concluded,  with  impas 
sioned  earnestness: 

"Some  day  Holy  Russia's  message  of  the  Divine  Mystery 
and  Presence  shall  save  all  the  world." 

"Some  day  Holy  Russia's  message  of  equality  and  reason 
shall  make  all  the  world  free,"  said  Vasalov. 

"You  cannot  make  the  world  free  excepting  through  love 
of  Christ,"  said  Dobronov,  gently. 

"You  cannot  make  the  world  free  if  you  bind  it  up  in 
all  the  unhealthy  and  crippling  dogmas  of  the  church," 
said  Vasalov. 

"How  dare  you  call  any  church  found  on  Christ's  words 
unhealthy  and  crippling?"  shouted  the  advocate  of  universal 
peace.  "How  dare  you,  Prince  Vasalov?" 

Vasalov  flushed  angrily,  and  it  became  evident  to  Frau 
Ursula  that  Dobronov  had  given  Vasalov  his  title  as  a  token 
of  crowning  disdain,  just  as  Vasalov,  probably,  had  given 
Dobronos  his  title  a  little  earlier  for  the  same  reason. 
She  suppressed  a  smile.  These  Russians  were  like  children 
— as  direct,  as  quarrelsome  and  as  sincere. 

"I   call  every  dogma,   and  not  only  every  dogma,  but 


CHILDHOOD  165 

every  religion  unhealthy,  because  the  object  in  every  in 
stance  is  to  betray  man  into  an  inglorious  acquiescence  in 
his  earthly  fate  by  holding  out  glowing  rewards  in  the 
hereafter." 

"We  must  rise  superior  to  our  earthly  fate,"  Dobronov 
said,  stoutly.  "If  our  earthly  state  had  power  to  chafe 
the  spirit,  the  spirit  is  weak  and  needs  hardening.  What 
does  dogma  or  doctrine  matter?  My  sole  doctrine  is  to 
obey  Christ  implicitly.  And  it  was  He  who  commanded 
and  practiced  poverty,  and  non-resistance.  Hence  my  re 
ligion  is  the  only  true  religion." 

"Ah,"  cried  Vasalov,  "they  all  say  that." 

Frau  Ursula  thought  it  time  to  put  an  end  to  this  futile 
argumentation. 

"Prince  Dobronov,"  she  began,  but  was  silenced  by  a 
roar  of  indignation  from  the  universal  pacifist. 

"Madame,"  he  shouted,  "what  have  I  done  to  deserve 
this  insult  from  you?  From  you?" 

"What  insult?"  stammered  Frau  Ursula,  half-aware 
wherein  she  had  blundered. 

"To  give  me  my  title !    To  call  me  'Prince.'  " 

"But  what  else  am  I  to  call  you  ?"  she  demanded,  boldly. 

"Sergius  Ivanovich,"  he  replied,  "of  course." 

"I  am  afraid  I  cannot  remember  all  that,"  she  said, 
petulantly.  And  now,  strange  to  say,  that  she  had  spoken 
to  him  without  the  restraint  customary  among  well-bred 
strangers,  she  felt  as  if  they  were  very  old  friends.  She 
found  that  she  liked  this  pale,  impetuous,  gray  lad,  whose 
fiery  spirit  was  at  such  variance  with  the  principles  which 
he  professed.  V 

"Then  call  me  plain  Dobronov.  No,  stop!  That's  too 
much  like  the  Intelligentsia.  Call  me  plain  Sergius." 

Frau  Ursula  was  a  little  taken  aback  by  this  suggested 
familiarity. 

"Do,  please,"  said  Dobronov,  smiling  at  her  so  charm 
ingly  that  she  consented  forthwith. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  "but  in  presenting  you  to  others, 
I  must  call  you  either  Prince  or  Mr.  Dobronov." 

"Why  must  you?"  demanded  the  scorner  of  titles. 

"If  I  had  known  you  were  a  prince,  I  should  have  given 
you  your  title  at  once,"  she  said,  smiling  a  little  fatuously. 
"After  all,  there  is  convention." 


i66  THE  HYPHEN 

"Convention!"  exclaimed  Dobronov. 

"I  thought,  of  course,  you  knew,"  said  Vasalov,  address 
ing  Frau  Ursula.  "The  Vasalovs  are  beggars  and  upstarts 
compared  to  the  Dobronovs.  Our  family  rose  to  prominence 
only  in  the  seventeenth  century  under  Philaret,  the  father 
of  Peter  the  Great,  the  Romanov  to  whom  our  ancestor 
was  related.  But  the  Dobronovs  trace  their  descent  back 
to  the  time  of  the  Muscovite  dynasty — to  one  of  the  boyars 
who  helped  end  Tartar  oppression." 

Dobronov  scowled  horribly  at  this  recital  of  his  family's 
antiquity  and  grandeur.  Vasalov,  ignoring  the  danger 
signal,  continued: 

"As  to  worldly  goods,  Dobronov's  grandfather,  before 
the  proclamation  was  issued  abolishing  serfs,  owned  some 
thing  like  fifteen  hundred  souls." 

Dobronov  flared  up  like  a  volcano. 

"Why  speak  of  these  shameful  things !"  he  cried.  "I 
have  lain  awake  nights  lamenting  the  sinfulness  of  my 
long  line  of  forebears  who  hopelessly  polluted  their  souls 
by  owning  serfs.  Heaven  knows,  those  same  sin-laden 
souls  by  this  time  may  be  suffering  painful  expiation  by 
habitation  in  the  bodies  of  monkeys,  chicken  or  swine.  Do 
not  laugh,  Dmitri  Stepanovich.  I  assure  you,  when  I  tread 
on  a  caterpillar,  or  scotch  a  snake,  or  when  I  eat  bacon 
or  duck,  I  tremble  with  dread  lest  I  am  hurting  or  eating" 
— he  shuddered — "one  of  my  ancestors." 

Frau  Ursula  was  transfixed  with  surprise. 

"You  do  not  seriously  believe  in  the  transmigration  of 
souls,"  she  demanded,  "do  you?" 

"Of  course,  I  do,"  said  Dobronov,  with  some  show  of 
impatience.  "What  else  should  I  believe?" 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Vasalov,  "that  you  are  taking  a 
contorted  view  of  the  matter.  "If  your  forebears  laid  up 
guilt  in  owning  serfs,  and  the  serfs  acquired  merit  through 
offering  no  resistance  in  their  own  behalf,  then,  surely,  part 
of  your  forefathers'  sins  must  be  remitted  them  because 
they  were  the  humble  instruments  of  Providence  in  allowing 
their  bondsmen  to  lay  up  treasure  in  heaven." 

Dobronov  grew  a  shade  paler. 

"What  an  idea!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  dreadful  things 
you  do  think  of,  Dmitri  Stepanovich.  I  believe  there  is 
something  in  it,  though.  What  made  you  put  such  a  notion 


CHILDHOOD  167 

in  my  head?  Still  another  idea  to  fit  in  with  my  beliefs. 
Some  day  my  poor  mind  will  succumb  to  the  strain  of  this 
continual  conflict  of  ideas." 

Frau  Ursula  had  not  yet  entirely  recovered  from  her 
surprise  in  Dobronov's  amazing  belief  in  transmigration. 

With  as  little  ceremony  as  Vasalov  or  Dobronov  ob 
served,  she  asked,  abruptly: 

"But  how  can  you  be  a  Christian,  Sergius,  if  you  really 
believe  in  the  old  religion  of  Egypt  ?" 

Dobronov's  face  glowed  with  pleasure  because  Frau 
Ursula  had  addressed  him  by  his  first  name.  He  was,  she 
saw,  as  unsophisticated  as  a  child.  Then,  with  a  quiet  in- 
tentness  which  contrasted  favorably  with  the  febrile  ex 
citement  which  had  marked  his  behavior  to  Vasalov  through 
out,  he  said: 

"There  are  a  great  number  of  religious  sects  in  Russia 
which  are  justified  in  describing  themselves  as  Christians, 
because  they  unqualifiedly  accept  the  teachings  of  Christ 
as  set  forth  in  the  New  Testament,  deriving  guidance  for 
their  conduct  from  that  source  and  that  only.  Further 
more,  they  refuse  to  worship  ikons,  will  not  tolerate 
Church  Slavonic  in  their  divine  services,  conducting  .them 
instead  in  the  vernacular,  and,  in  brief,  repudiate  the  vast 
web  of  falsehood,  of  ridiculous  doctrine,  of  corruption,  of 
license  which  accumulates  about  every  church  maintaining 
a  highly  specialized  sacerdotal  caste.  These  various  sects 
believe  that  dogma  has  very  little  to  do  with  salvation,  and 
concentrate  rather  in  following  the  precepts  of  clean  living 
enunciated  by  Jesus.  But  a  religious  belief,  quite  apart 
from  the  ethics  of  religion,  is  indigenous  to  the  primitive 
human  heart,  and  the  Russians  are  still  a  primitive  people. 
Hence  they  insist  on  classifying  themselves,  driven  thereto 
probably  by  an  animal  instinct  for  companionship  quite 
as  much  as  by  the  religious  instinct.  Indeed,  there  are 
times  when  the  two  instincts  seem  to  me  identical." 

"Well,"  Vasalov  exclaimed,  "I  confess,  I  did  not  expect 
such  a  keen  and  searching  analysis  of  the  religious  psy 
chology  from  a  religious  enthusiast  like  yourself." 

The  flush  of  anger  leaped  to  Dobronov's  cheek. 
Vasalov,  quiet,  disdainful,  his  restraint  slightly  tinged  with 
malice,  seemed  to  act  like  an  irritant  upon  the  younger  man's 
nerves  whenever  he  chose  to  address  him. 


168  THE  HYPHEN 

"Because  you  are  a  materialist  and  an  atheist,  Dmitri 
Stepanovich,  you  cannot  perceive  the  difference  between 
an  ethical  follower  of  Christ,  like  myself,  and  religious 
bigots  who  pin  their  faith  in  salvation  upon  some  silly 
dogma  of  their  own  fabrication. 

"It  is  because  I  am  an  ethical  follower  of  Christ,"  he 
continued,  with  gathering  emphasis,  "and  believe  that  right 
living  is  everything  and  dogma  of  not  the  least  consequence 
in  this  world  or  the  next,  that  I  refuse  resolutely  to  allow 
myself  to  be  classified.  I  do  not  even  care  to  be  identified 
with  the  Dukhobors  who,  in  my  estimation,  more  than  any 
other  religious  body,  embody  divine  truth  in  their  teach 
ings." 

"You  are  a  Dukhobor,  even  if  you  deny  it,"  said  Vasalov. 

Dobronov  made  a  horrible  grimace,  but  did  not  reply. 
With  a  shrug  of  the  shoulder  he  continued  his  elucidation, 
pointedly  addressing  Frau  Ursula. 

"Being  in  the  flesh,  I  am  only  human,  and  being  human 
I  cannot  help  formulating  some  beliefs,  nor  can  I  help 
examining  every  new  phase  of  religious  thought  or  re 
ligion  that  comes  my  way.  Many  strange  religions  have 
left  their  impress  on  the  Russian  character  by  infiltration 
from  other  races  and  other  lands.  I  could  name  you  a 
parallel  religion  for  every  belief  I  hold.  That  does  not 
deter  me  from  holding  it.  My  beliefs — and  for  a  Christian 
they  will  seem  odd  beliefs  to  a  German  Lutheran  like 
yourself — may  have  come  to  me  by  seepage;  on  the  other 
hand,  they  may  have  sprung  spontaneously  out  of  my  own 
spiritual  soil.  I  do  not  know  which.  And  I  do  not  care." 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  tell  Frau  Hauser  just 
what  you  do  believe,"  Vasalov  suggested. 

"Yes,  yes.  That  is  so.  Verehrte  Frau,  I  am  a  Du 
khobor  in  that  I  accept  Christ's  precept  of  non-resistance. 
I  am  a  Molokan  in  that  I  reverence  the  Bible.  I  am  a 
Bezpopovtoky  in  that  I  do  not  believe  in  a  priesthood  of 
any  sort;  I  am  a  Bieguny  in  that  I  believe  the  safest 
guaranty  for  not  transgressing  against  the  law  of  poverty 
practiced  and  taught  by  Christ  is  to  be  found  in  a  nomadic 
life;  I  am  a  Skoptsky,  in  that  I  believe  the  perfect  man 
should  be  a  eunuch  for  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven's  sake, 
although,  contrary  to  the  Skopskys,  I  believe  that  this  per 
fection  must  be  attained  by  purely  spiritual  means,  by  a 


CHILDHOOD  169 

spiritual  conquest  of  the  flesh.  And  lastly,  I  am  a  Khlytsy 
in  that  I  believe  in  the  transmigration  of  the  soul  after 
death;  but  I  abhor  the  religious  orgies  practiced  by  this 
sect.  So  you  see  the  dilemma  I  am  in.  One  doctrine  of 
one  religion  suits  me,  other  doctrines  of  other  religions 
appeal  to  me.  That  is  one  reason  why  I  refuse  to  label 
myself.  Also  I  am  an  individualist.  I  am  entirely  free 
from  the  herding  instinct.  What  I  will  come  to  in  the 
future  I  cannot,  of  course,  say.  One  reason  for  my  coming 
to  America  was  the  desire  to  learn  more  of  the  beliefs 
of  your  numerous  Protestant  sects." 

Frau  Ursula  had  listened  with  growing  bewilderment. 
Surely,  never  was  there  so  curious  a  confession  of  faith. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  a  man  who,  as  far  as  she  could  gather, 
seemed  to  be  the  direct  antithesis  of  Vasalov  in  thought  and 
habit  of  life — in  spite  of  the  single  point  upon  which  they 
averred  that  they  agreed — would  have  been  the  very  last 
person  whom  Vasalov  would  have  wished  to  select  as  a 
tutor  for  Guido.  She  was  greatly  disturbed.  Much  as 
she  disliked  Vasalov  and  mistrusted  him,  she  was  loth  to 
suspect  Dobronov  of  duplicity.  His  evident  sincerity,  the 
childlike  simplicity  with  which  he  spread  out  his  spiritual 
beliefs  and  his  mentality  for  her  inspection,  had  won  her 
liking  and  her  esteem. 

Vasalov,  that  sinister  genius — for  so  she  conceived  him 
— must  have  read  something  of  her  misgivings  in  her  face. 

"I  see  you  are  wondering  why  I  selected  Sergius  Ivano- 
vich  as  a  tutor  for  Guido,"  he  said,  a  slightly  contemptuous 
smile  twitching  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  "I  will  tell 
you  my  reasons.  I  selected  him  for  the  high  honor  of 
tutoring  the  lad  in  whom  our  greatest  hopes  center  be 
cause  in  spite  of  Dobronov's  youth  he  represents  Russian 
thought  in  its  overpowering  variety  more  than  any  man 
I  know.  There  is  no  phase  of  Russian  life — from  the 
Intelligentsia  to  the  Imperial  Ballet — with  which  he  is  not 
conversant.  He  is  a  veritable  magnet  for  current  thought. 
No-Bias  is  safe  in  his  hands,  because  Sergius  Ivanovich 
changes  his  ideas  and  beliefs  more  frequently  than  many 
Russians  change  their  clothes.  He  never  retains  any  one 
idea  long  enough  to  become  saturated  with  it,  or  to  con 
vince  anyone  else  of  its  correctness.  I  myself  have  too 
narrow,  too  restricted  a  view,  as  the  specialist  in  any  one 


170  THE  HYPHEN 

field  must  necessarily  have.  But  Varvara  Alexandrovna 
desired  the  most  ingrainedly  Russian  Russian  available  to 
instruct  her  son.  You  behold  him  in  Sergius  Ivanovich. 
He  is  not  merely  the  most  Russian  Russian  I  know,  he 
not  merely  reflects  Russian  throught  with  admirable  com 
pleteness  and  admirable  complexity;  he  is  Russia  itself, 
Russia  in  miniature." 

Dobronov  had  listened  with  the  utmost  composure  to 
this  analysis  of  his  spiritual  self.  He  did  not  seem  to 
resent  it.  Speaking  with  calm  aloofness,  he  remarked: 

"I  don't  think  you  do  me  justice,  Dmitri  Stepanovich, 
in  speaking  of  me  as  a  magnet  of  ideas.  The  freakish 
things  attracted  by  a  magnet  pile  up  confusedly  all  over 
its  surface.  But  my  ideas  are  in  orderly  arrangement. 
My  mind  is  a  titanic  kaleidoscope,  in  which  the  many- 
pointed  star  which  carries  out  the  kaleidoscope's  principal 
design  indicates  my  major  beliefs,  all  my  minor  thoughts 
and  emotions  being  arranged  so  as  to  fill  in  the  intervening 
themes.  They  intersect,  intermingle,  interlace.  I  admit 
that  I  change  my  beliefs  and  doctrines  very  frequently. 
What  does  it  matter?  They  are  really  of  no  particular 
consequence.  All  excepting  the  belief  in  non-resistance. 
To  that  I  adhere  rigidly,  and  will  adhere  so  long  as  there 
is  life  in  my  body." 

"From  the  stress  you  lay  upon  the  Russian  element  in 
Guido's  education,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  addressing  Vasalov, 
"one  would  think  the  Synthesis  had  the  salvation  of  Russia 
particularly  in  view.  But  that  isn't  so.  The  Synthesis 
concerns  the  world.  And  Guido  is  a  German-American 
quite  as  much  as  a  Russo-American." 

"A  German- American — a  German!"  shouted  Dobronov. 
"Do  not  speak  of  that  infamous  race." 

"The  hypocrite  among  peoples,"  Vasalov  threw  in. 

"The  bully  among  nations,"  said  Dobronov. 

"The  blond  beast  of  the  world!"  Vasalov  contributed. 
His  deep  mellow  baritone  made  the  lines  ring  like  the 
chant  of  a  priest. 

"Vainglorious,  conceited  materialists,"  Dobronov  con 
tinued.  "Oppressors  of  the  poor  and  weak.  Cringing 
toadies  to  the  powerful." 

"Apparently,  gentlemen,"  Frau  Ursula  contrived  to  in 
terpose  at  this  point,  "in  your  estimation,  the  Universal 


CHILDHOOD  171 

Brotherhood  of  man  does  not  embrace  the  German  race. 
Antipathy,  I  perceive,  has  as  great  a  power  to  unite  you 
as  predilection." 

Dobronov  hung  his  head,  like  a  reproved  child,  and  even 
Vasalov  seemed  a  trifle  abashed. 

"The  country  which  you  are  abusing  is  the  country  in 
which  I  was  born,"  Frau  Ursula  continued,  pleasantly. 
"Of  course,  as  an  American  citizen  it  matters  little  to  me 
so  long  as  your  diatribes  confine  themselves  to  the  country. 
But  when  you  extend  them  to  embrace  the  entire  race  of 
Germans,  I  feel  myself  included,  for,  as  you  pointed  out 
to  me  on  a  previous  occasion,  Prince  Vasalov,  we  can 
change  our  political  allegiance  but  not  our  race." 

Dobronov  seemed  crushed — as  much  by  the  new  per 
spective  presented  by  Frau  Ursula  as  by  pain  at  having 
given  his  hostess  offense. 

"What  things  people  do  say,"  he  exclaimed.  "Ah,  to 
escape  from  this  perpetual  conflict  of  ideas!" 

Vasalov  waited  with  an  exaggerated  patience  for  Do 
bronov  to  finish.  Then,  with  his  usual  urbanity,  he  said: 

"Verehrte  Frau,  I  humbly  beg  your  pardon.  We  have 
both  been  unforgivably  rude.  I  did  not  think  of  you  as 
a  German.  From  what  you  said  the  other  day  I  thought 
that  you  had  completely  identified  yourself  with  America." 

Before  Frau  Ursula  could  reply,  Dobronov  sprang  from 
his  chair  spasmodically. 

"Chere  madame,"  he  cried,  "will  you  forgive  me  if  I 
leave  on  the  instant?"  He  had,  it  seems,  an  engagement 
to  speak  at  a  dinner  given  by  a  Society  for  Advanced 
Thinking.  Frau  Ursula  smilingly  bade  him  wave  ceremony. 
He  made  his  adieus,  kissing  her  hand  as  he  bade  her  good 
bye,  an  action  for  which  he  apologized  immediately,  ex 
plaining  that  in  his  youth  the  observances  of  polite  society 
had  been  so  rammed  into  him  that  in  moments  of  abstrac 
tion  he  reverted  to  them  although  they  were  expressly 
prohibited  both  by  his  religious  and  his  political  views. 

Then  he  ran  off  as  joyously  as  a  boy  to  garner  in  more 
ideas  for  his  mental  kaleidoscope. 

A  dullness  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  the  room  now 
that  Dobronov's  mercurial  presence  was  removed.  Neither 
Vasalov  nor  Frau  Ursula  felt  any  inclination  to  prolong 
the  conversation. 


THE  HYPHEN 

Vasalov  requested  his  hostess  to  supply  Guiclo  with  some 
plausible  reason  for  the  study  of  Russian.  She  suggested 
that  he  place  at  her  disposal  one  or  two  Russian  books. 
He  had  a  small  volume  of  verse  in  his  pocket  and  handed 
it  to  her.  Then  he  left  her,  assuring  her,  his  half-amused, 
half-malicious  smile  still  faintly  perceptible,  that  she  would 
not  be  troubled  by  himself  overmuch  in  future. 

On  the  whole  Frau  Ursula  felt  that  she  had  reason  to 
congratulate  herself  that  the  Vasalov  episode  had  moved 
along  such  equable  lines.  The  devastating  blow  it  had 
dealt  her  own  happiness  she  tried  not  to  think  about. 
Blind  fury  possessed  her  at  times  at  thought  of  Hauser's 
suspicion.  She  forced  her  thoughts  to  flow  as  much  as 
possible  in  other  channels. 

True  to  her  promise  she  laid  the  Russian  book  which 
Vasalov  had  placed  in  her  hands  on  the  parlor  table,  certain 
that  her  book-worm  would  rise  to  the  bait.  The  expected 
happened.  Guido  discovered  the  book  one  evening,  and, 
always  hungry  for  printed  matter,  seized  avidly  upon  the 
volume  with  the  unaccustomed  characters.  He  demanded 
to  be  told  what  language  it  might  be  that  employed  signs 
so  confusing  and  arbitrary.  Chinese,  mayhap? 

"Russian,"  said  Frau  Ursula. 

"Russian  ?    Then  Prince  Vasalov  was  here  to-day  ?" 

"No — day  before  yesterday." 

"While  I  was  out?" 

"While  you  were  out." 

"Mutterchen,  are  there  many  books  printed  in  Russian?" 

"Yes." 

"Have  they  any  great  writers,  like  Schiller  and  Goethe  ?" 

"Some  critics  consider  the  Russian  novelists  the  greatest 
in  the  world." 

"Mother,  I  should  love  to  study  Russian." 

"You  may,  if  you  wish." 

The  curriculum  of  studies  allowed  Guido,  owing  to  the 
ever-present  fear  that  he  would  outdo  his  meager  strength, 
had  been  deleted  as  much  as  possible.  Frau  Ursula  had, 
as  it  were,  weeded  the  necessities  of  learning  from  the 
luxuries.  Arithmetic  was  comprised  in  the  schedule,  and 
so  were  History  and  Geography.  But  Spelling,  Reading, 
Music,  Drawing  and  Botany  were  barred.  Thus  his  work 
had  been  frugally  pared  down  to  embrace  only  the  most 


CHILDHOOD  173 

needful.  Guido,  alert  and  keen-witted  though  he  was,  per 
ceived  nothing  strange  in  the  fact  that  he  was  not  per 
mitted  to  study  a  language  as  popular  as  French,  while 
encouraged  in  his  desire  to  master  so  unusual  a  tongue  as 
Russian. 

And  so  Russian  was  added  to  Guido's  linguistic  tribula 
tions.  He  was  enchanted  with  Dobronov,  and  Dobronov 
was  equally  charmed  with  the  child.  It  was  evident  from 
the  first  that  they  were  going  to  be  excellent  friends,  and 
once  more  Frau  Ursula  was  filled  with  alarm. 

Poor  Frau  Ursula!  In  spite  of  her  very  decided  liking 
for  Dobronov,  all  her  fears  and  all  her  qualms  of  conscience 
were  intermittently  recurrent.  She  could  not  have  re 
proached  herself  more  bitterly  if  she  had  apprenticed  Guido 
to  Fagan  himself. 

Dobronov,  in  spite  of  his  seeming  honesty  and  trans 
parent  candor  might,  just  possibly  might,  be  a  blind  pur- 
posively  designed  and  engineered  by  the  malignant  Vasalov. 
If  so,  Frau  Ursula  was  bound  to  admit,  Dobronov  was 
an  actor  of  supreme  genius.  Sometimes  she  sat  in  the 
room  while  the  Russian  lesson  was  proceeding;  sometimes 
she  subjected  Guido  to  a  grilling  third  degree  after  the 
lesson  was  over.  Certainly  nothing  took  place  during  these 
lessons  which  might  remotely  be  construed  as  inciting 
Guido  to  homicidal  mania.  A  few  times,  on  evenings 
when  she  knew  that  her  husband  would  not  be  at  home, 
Frau  Ursula  invited  Dobronov  to  stay  for  tea.  If  Frau 
Ursula  had  expected  to  glean  some  insight  into  the  nefarious 
Vasalov  methods  or  nefarious  Vasalov  intentions  from 
Dobronov,  she  was  doomed  to  disappointment.  Dobronov 
touched  on  nothing  more  heinous  than  his  contemplated 
conversion  to  the  Baptist  faith.  His  aversion  for  being 
labeled  seemed  to  be  undergoing  disintegration.  He  was 
very  enthusiastic  about  the  Baptists  and  was  receiving  in 
struction  in  their  beliefs.  Baptism  of  adults  by  immersion 
struck  him  as  the  most  commendably  exculpatory  rite  he 
had  yet  heard  of.  He  burned  with  ardor  to  have  it  per 
formed  upon  himself,  but  some  instinct  made  him  insist 
upon  preliminary  instruction.  He  trembled  with  appre 
hension  lest  he  stumble  upon  some  obstacle.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  was  not  only  willing  but  eager  to  be 
classified  and  labeled. 


174  THE  HYPHEN 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  Dobronov's  reassuring  manner  and 
speech,  Frau  Ursula's  uneasiness  continued.  She  had  long 
talks  with  Dr.  Koenig,  and  thanked  heaven  for  the  boon 
of  the  old  physician's  friendship.  To  Mrs.  Thornton  also 
Frau  Ursula  unbosomed  herself.  Mrs.  Thornton  was  an 
uncompromising  optimist  and  chid  Frau  Ursula  gently  for 
her  lack  of  faith  in  Dobronov.  She,  too,  had  taken  Sergius 
Ivanovich  to  her  heart,  and  his  efforts  at  conversation 
with  her  in  English  were  more  sucessful  than  Frau  Ursula 
had  supposed  possible. 

The  Experiment  Mrs.  Thornton  thought  extraordinary 
and  delightful.  She  seemed  to  look  upon  it  as  a  sort 
of  sublimated  joke.  Frau  Ursula  was  a  little  hurt  by 
this  attitude.  In  Frau  Ursula's  eyes  Mrs.  Thornton's  un 
quenchable  optimism  sometimes  savored  of  levity.  It  was, 
in  fact,  the  only  thing  about  Mrs.  Thornton  which  Frau 
Ursula  did  not  quite  like.  Because  Mrs.  Thornton  was 
so  charming  and  lovable,  Frau  Ursula  chose  to  overlook 
her  airy  sprightliness  in  disposing  of  the  most  serious 
topics  in  life,  taking  considerable  credit  to  herself  for  being 
thus  broad-gauged,  and  never  suspecting  that  what  she 
considered  a  failing  in  the  pretty  little  widow  was  in  truth 
one  of  her  finest  attributes. 

But  of  the  matter  which  was  the  source  of  a  continual, 
grueling  agitation,  she  could  speak  neither  to  Mrs.  Thorn 
ton  nor  to  the  kind  old  physician.  Her  break  with  Hauser 
preyed  upon  her  mind.  In  vain  she  tried  to  wrap  herself 
in  proud  disdain,  in  vain  tried  to  tell  herself  that  he  was 
as  much  of  a  clinging  vulgarian,  Streber,  opportunist,  time- 
server  and  plebeian  as  he  had  ever  been.  He  was  so 
impossible  that  mere  contact  with  him  spelled  degrada 
tion.  If  that  were  not  so,  how  had  she  happened  to  forget 
her  dignity  so  far  as  to  say  the  things  to  him  which  un 
deniably  she  had  said?  She  knew  that  she  had  acted  very 
badly,  and  her  anger  and  disgust  with  herself  increased  her 
anger  and  disgust  with  him  who  had  evoked  these  senti 
ments  of  self -depreciation. 

She  still  had  her  soft  moments,  but  she  tried  to  harden 
herself  against  them.  There  was  no  excuse  possible  for 
considering  her  one  of  the  unspeakable  sisterhood.  The 
recollection  of  that  burned  like  caustic.  Like  many  another 
virtuous  woman,  Frau  Ursula  ail-unconsciously,  whenever 


CHILDHOOD  175 

occasion  offered,  asserted  her  virtue  by  viciously  proclaim 
ing  her  contempt  for  those  of  her  sex  who  had  strayed 
from  the  narrow  path.  She  deliberately  blinded  herself 
to  the  recurrence  of  the  salad-day  disease  from  which  she 
was  suffering.  Perhaps  she  really  was  blind  to  it.  But  a 
patient  down  with  bronchial  pneumonia  suffers  quite  as 
much  or  more  if  in  ignorance  of  the  nature  of  the  disease 
than  if  it  has  been  properly  diagnosed. 

Matters  came  to  a  head  between  herself  and  Hauser 
when  one  day  he  came  home  shortly  after  dinner  with  a 
roll  of  blue  prints  under  his  arm.  He  seemed  pleasantly 
excited,  and  in  addressing  his  wife  gave  no  sign  that  all 
was  not  well  between  them. 

"I  have  the  architect's  plans  here  for  the  new  house," 
he  said.  -"At  my  request  he  has  made  rough  sketches  and 
plans  for  four  different  styles.  If  none  of  these  I  have 
here  suit  you,  I  told  him  he  would  have  to  come  here  some 
day  and  have  a  talk  with  you  so  that  you  would  be  sure 
to  get  just  the  sort  of  house  you  have  in  mind." 

Frau  Ursula  resented  strongly  that  Hauser  should  take 
it  for  granted  that  she  would  allow  herself  to  be  obligated 
to  him  to  such  an  extent.  After  what  had  happened  be 
tween  them,  she  considered  it  a  piece  of  audacity  on  his 
part  to  broach  the  subject  of  the  new  house  at  all.  The 
still  inner  voice  which  is  present  in  every  human  soul 
whispered  to  her  that  he  was  striving  desperately  to  place 
himself  on  the  same  footing  with  her  as  before,  that  he 
was  clumsy,  perhaps,  in  his  choice  of  an  avenue  of  ap 
proach,  but  that  his  intentions  were  good. 

But  she  would  not  hearken  to  the  small  still  voice.  She 
said  coldly: 

"I  have  no  sort  of  house  in  mind  at  all." 

"Oh,  come  now,  surely  you  must  have,"  Hauser  said, 
persuasively.  "Even  I,  who  am  not  particularly  imaginative, 
have  an  ideal  of  pretty  nearly  everything  under  the  sun 
from  a  horse  to  a  house." 

"Supposing,  then,  you  suit  yourself  as  to  the  house," 
Frau  Ursula  said,  coldly. 

"I'd  like  to  suit  you,  instead,"  said  the  man,  pleadingly. 
"I'm  sure  your  taste  is  better  than  mine  and  besides — per 
haps  I  should  have  put  that  reason  first — I  want  so  much 
that  you  should  be  thoroughly  pleased.  When  you  have 


i;6  THE  HYPHEN 

time,  please,  Ursula,  look  over  these  blue  prints.  Would 
you  like  me  to  explain  them  to  you?" 

"I  would  not,"  said  Frau  Ursula. 

Probably  half  of  the  quarrels  in  the  world  are  caused 
by  the  inability  of  one  person  to  get  the  other  person's 
viewpoint.  Hauser  could  not — honestly  could  not — com 
prehend  why  his  wife  should  continue  to  show  such  an 
implacable  resentment  because  he  had  clumsily  referred 
to  her  early  indiscretion.  He  had  not  animadverted,  he  had 
merely  adverted.  In  marrying  her,  had  he  not  wiped  that 
indiscretion  off  the  slate?  His  was  the  continental  code 
of  ethics,  and,  for  that  matter,  the  world  over  it  is  con 
sidered  that  the  man  who  forgives  his  wife  a  pre-marital 
imprudence  is  doing  rather  a  fine  thing.  So  he  could 
not  comprehend  why  she  was  so  very  angry.  If,  as  she 
claimed,  Guido  was  not  her  child  and  Vasalov's,  why  had 
she  withheld  the  proofs  of  which  she  spoke?  She  was  not 
a  hysterical  woman,  not  one  of  your  unwholesome,  capri 
cious  creatures  who  take  pride  in  being  nervous  wrecks 
at  thirty.  She  was  clean,  and  well-poised  and  as  honest 
as  the  day.  He  could,  therefore,  only  conclude  that  his 
supposition  was  entirely  correct,  and  that  Guido  was  her 
child.  Why,  then,  this  show  of  continued  contempt  for 
himself? 

Frau  Ursula  on  the  other  hand  dwelt  only  on  his  ill 
opinion  of  her  in  one  particular,  not  on  the  general  high 
esteem  in  which  she  knew  very  well  that  he  held  her. 
Nothing  less  than  a  frank  apology  and  downright  repudia 
tion  of  his  apocalyptic  beliefs  would  satisfy  her;  and  even 
these,  spontaneously  rendered,  would  not  erase  her  anger 
and  dismay  completely.  It  would  take  years  to  abrade 
those  emotions. 

Both  Hauser  and  Frau  Ursula,  like  the  majority  of  their 
sisters  and  brothers,  had  a  fair  modicum  of  self  love  and 
vanity,  which  they  dignified  by  the  pretty  name  of  self- 
respect. 

This  sort  of  conversation,  conciliatory  and  ingratiating 
on  his  side,  resistive  and  disagreeable  on  hers,  continued 
a  little  longer.  She  would  not  look  at  the  blue  prints;  she 
would  express  no  preference  for  one  style  of  architecture 
over  another ;  she  would  not  decide  on  the  site ;  she  wasn't 
the  least  bit  interested;  she  resolutely  refused  to  take  cog- 


CHILDHOOD  177 

nizance  of  the  fact  that  her  husband  was  trying  with  all  his 
might  and  main  to  make  up. 

Finally  he  lost  his  patience. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "if  you  won't  be  friends,  you 
won't." 

After  that  he  went  back  to  the  manner  which  had  so 
cowed  Guido  and  hurt  her  during  the  bitter  months  which 
had  preceded  the  day  that  had  begun  so  auspiciously  only 
to  end  in  complete  disaster.  He  came  home  for  meals, 
hung  about  the  house  after  hours,  was  everywhere  and  no 
where  and  was  always  distinctly  and  deliberately  unpleas 
ant,  ironic,  mocking  and  brutal. 

Guido,  who  was  getting  stronger  every  day,  took  all  his 
meals  at  the  table  now.  Not  a  meal  passed  without  some 
outburst  on  Hauser's  part. 

"What,  the  heir-apparent  is  not  eating  lamb-stew  but  has 
a  lamp-chop  instead !"  he  exclaimed  one  day.  "Why  a 
lamb-chop?  Why  not  a  quail  on  toast,  or  a  frog's  leg,  or 
goose's  liver?  I  am  afraid  the  prince  is  not  being  treated 
well.  Madame,  I  must  insist  that  royalty,  when  under  my 
roof,  receives  the  proper  service." 

"Why  do  you  call  me  a  prince,  father?"  the  boy  inquired. 
"We  have  no  royal  blood.  Prince  Vasalov  has,  though. 
He  is  distantly  related  to  the  Czar." 

"If  Vasalov  is  related  to  the  Czar  so  are  you ;  if  Vasalov 
has  the  title  of  prince  so  should  you  have  it,"  said  Hauser, 
with  horrible  appropriateness. 

"Erich !"  Frau  Ursula  cried  imploringly.  She  was  white 
with  terror  and  rage. 

"Well,  my  dear,  what  is  it?  What  did  you  wish  to  say? 
Nothing?  Just  called  out  my  name  for  the  joy  of  the 
thing  ?  There's  a  loving  wife  for  you ;  eh,  Guido  ?" 

"My  mother  is  the  sweetest  mother  in  the  world,"  the 
boy  replied,  a  weepy  quaver  in  his  voice. 

"Of  course!  But  I  was  speaking  of  wives,  not  of 
mothers.  Sweet  wives  are  not  necessarily  good  mothers, 
sweet  mothers  not  necessarily  good  wives.  Women,  my 
lad,  have  a  great  knack  of — what  is  it,  my  dear?  The 
boy  is  too  young  for  instruction  of  this  sort?  Why,  so 
he  is,  of  course.  I  wonder  what  I  was  thinking  of." 

"I  don't  like  you  to  make  my  mother  ridiculous,"  said 
Guido,  stoutly. 


178  THE  HYPHEN 

"Hush,  Guido,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  in  anguish. 

"Why  'hush,'  Ursula?  The  boy's  remarks  are  illuminat 
ing.  He  is  something  above  you  and  me,  I've  been  given  to 
understand.  Why?  Because  he's  so  delicate,  of  course, 
and  has  such  a  brilliant  mind." 

A  flush  of  anger  spotted  the  boy's  pale  cheeks.  The  in 
visible  lash  which  for  a  little  time  had  ceased  cruelly  to 
exercise  itself  upon  him,  was  again  at  work,  falling  every 
where.  He  could  not  see  it,  or  smell  it,  or  hear  it  or  touch 
it.  Neither  could  he  escape  it.  But  he  could  feel  it  most 
abundantly. 

How  he  hated  his  father! 

"I  don't  care  if  you  make  fun  of  me,"  he  said,  his  heart 
pounding  heavily  against  his  ribs.  "But  I  won't  have  my 
mother  ridiculed!" 

"Guido,  be  silent,"  said  Frau  Ursula. 

Hauser  laughed.  It  was  a  low,  cruel  laugh  and  the 
woman's  blood  ran  cold  with  apprehension.  What  more 
was  to  come? 

"Let  the  boy  talk,"  said  Hauser.  "Here's  a  gracious 
young  prince  willing  himself  to  play  the  role  of  court  fool, 
but  unwilling  to  have  a  breath  of  ridicule  or  reproach 
accrue  to  his  mother." 

"Oh,  Hauser,"  almost  sobbed  Frau  Ursula,  and  Mrs. 
Thornton  bent  eyes  strangely  fearful  for  a  confirmed  op 
timist  upon  the  master  of  the  house.  Guido  glared  sullenly 
across  the  table  at  the  man  whom  he  called  "father." 

"Well,  my  lad,  has  your  tongue  given  out?"  Hauser  in 
quired  in  his  mock-solicitous  way. 

"I  hate  you,"  said  Guido,  unexpectedly.  "I  hate  you. 
I  HATE  you." 

Hauser  laughed  offensively,  odiously. 

"The  trouble  with  you,  my  boy,"  he  sneered,  "is  described 
admirably  by  an  old  proverb.  'Spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the 
child.'  You  need  a  good  thrashing,  my  lad." 

Mrs.  Thornton  and  Frau  Ursula  exchanged  terrified 
looks,  and  then  turned  eyes  of  anger  and  indignation  upon 
Hauser. 

"I'm  a  brute,  of  course."  He  smiled  comprehensively, 
so  as  to  include  both  his  wife  and  Mrs.  Thornton  in  the 
grimace.  Then,  addressing  Guido,  he  continued,  "A  sore 
back  is  a  splendid  thing  to  have,  my  lad.  Don't  stop  culti- 


CHILDHOOD  179 

vating  it.  Why,  I  suppose  you'd  faint  with  fright  at  sight 
of  a  whip?" 

There  fell  an  ominous  pause.  Then  the  unexpected  hap 
pened.  Guido  vaulted  from  his  chair  and  sprang  to  Hau- 
ser's  side. 

"I'm  not  a  coward,"  he  cried,  "and  I  won't  let  you  call 
me  one.  You  can  beat  me  all  you  like,  you  big  bully,  but 
you  shan't  call  me  a  coward!" 

Hauser  did  not  reply.  There  was  upon  his  face  a  ter 
rible  leer.  Frau  Ursula's  feelings  for  him  were  at  the  mo 
ment  compact  of  hatred.  It  seemed  impossible  that  the 
man  who  could  be  so  gentle  and  thoughtful  as  she  had  seen 
him  in  the  past,  could,  at  will,  turn  himself  into  a  fiend 
incarnate. 

"Well,"  the  boy  cried  again,  "why  don't  you  beat  me?" 

"Perhaps,  perhaps  I  will!" 

Frau  Ursula  sprang  from  her  chair,  but  before  she  could 
reach  Guido,  Mrs.  Thornton,  who  was  nearer  to  him,  had 
grasped  the  boy  about  the  waist  and  was  dragging  him 
toward  her.  Guido  began  struggling,  clawing  desperately 
at  the  air  in  a  vain  endeavor  to  seize  Hauser,  and  crying 
out  excitedly  again  and  again  that  he  was  not  a  coward  and 
did  not  fear  the  whip.  For  the  longest  time  the  combined 
efforts  of  Frau  Ursula  and  Mrs.  Thornton  failed  to  quell 
the  boy's  hysterical  outbreak. 

Hauser's  face  underwent  a  subtle  change.  The  muscles 
of  his  jowl  and  mouth  seemed  to  working  painfully  in  ad 
justing  themselves  to  this  new  expression.  Almost  it 
seemed  from  his  look  as  if  he  were  sorry  for  the  commo 
tion  of  which  he  was  the  inexcusable  cause. 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Guido,"  he  said  shortly,  but  not  un 
kindly.  "Can't  you  take  a  joke?  Even  if  you  were  strong 
like  other  boys,  I  would  not  chastise  you,  as  I  threatened 
to  do  just  now  in  fun,  because  both  your  mother  and  my 
self  disapprove  of  corporal  punishment." 

He  rose  abruptly  from  the  table  and  as  abruptly  left  the 
room.  It  was,  under  the  circumstances,  the  best  thing  he 
could  do. 

Guido  was  quite  ill  for  several  days  following  the  un- 
beautiful  scene,  and  this  gave  his  mother  the  needful  ex 
cuse  for  again  having  his  meals  served  in  his  room,  a 


i8o  THE  HYPHEN 

measure  which  she  was  determined  to  adhere  to  indefinitely 
in  order  to  avoid  friction  in  the  future. 

Hauser,  when  incidentally  apprized  of  the  change,  which 
Frau  Ursula  assured  him  she  was  inaugurating  for  his 
sake,  said,  ironically: 

"Quite  sure  it  isn't  for  Guide's  sake  ?  Well,  I  don't 
blame  you.  And  I'm  quite  sure  he  is  as  glad  to  be  rid  of 
me  as  I  am  to  be  rid  of  him !" 

Frau  Ursula  took  renewed  counsel  with  herself.  Again 
she  contemplated  leaving  Hauser.  After  all,  she  was  not 
chained  to  him.  But  the  sinister  specter  which  Vasalov 
had  raised  shattered  her  quasi-resolution.  She  could  not 
rid  herself  of  the  unreasoning  and  unreasonable  fear  that 
Dmitri  Stepanovich  might  yet  attempt  to  kidnap  Guido,  and 
in  spite  of  Hauser's  brutality  to  the  boy  she  was  filled  with 
an  unshakable  faith  that  he  would  not  fail  her  if  she  ever 
found  herself  in  dire  straits. 

Nor  was  that  all.  Circumstances  arise  in  life  when,  in 
facing  motives,  the  honesty  of  the  most  honest  becomes  im 
paired.  Frau  Ursula  was  not  as  coldly  calculating  as  she 
would  have  had  herself  believe.  She  regarded  Hauser  not 
wholly  from  the  utilitarian  view-point,  although,  at  this 
period,  she  would  have  violently  repudiated  any  statement 
to  this  effect.  Had  she  not  every  reason  to  hate  and  to 
despise  him?  His  asinine  and  insulting  suspicion  of  her 
self?  His  treatment  of  Guido?  Yet,  when  the  last  is  said 
the  fact  remains  that  she  trusted  him  implicitly  as  she 
trusted  no  one  else.  She  had  married  him  because  she  be 
lieved  that  after  night-fall,  Indians  ran  around  the  streets 
of  American  towns  scalping  pedestrians  and  raiding 
houses.  And  she  remained  married  to  him  because  she 
feared  that  Vasalov  would  spirit  away  her  boy. 

She  was  unaware  that  in  trusting  him  as  she  did  she  was 
paying  him  the  highest  compliment  which  a  woman  can  pay 
a  man. 

She  was  a  well-balanced,  wholesome,  throbbingly  alive 
woman.  To  such  as  she  the  unfortunate  termination  of 
any  affair  is  unthinkable.  Subconsciously  this  had  much 
to  do  with  the  fact  that  she  remained  under  Hauser's  roof. 

It  is,  perhaps,  this  aversion  for  an  unhappy  ending  that 
makes  men  and  women  look  beyond  the  grave  and  establish 
immortality  as  the  sole  rational  solution  of  all  the  dishar 
monious  and  frayed  ends  which  make  up  earthly  existence. 


CHAPTER  IX 

GUIDO'S  indisposition  was  not  sloughed  off  as  rapidly 
as  Frau  Ursula  had  hoped.  She  told  him  of  her  deci 
sion  that  he  should  henceforth  eat  his  meals  in  the  pri 
vacy  of  his  own  room,  with  either  herself  or  Mrs.  Thornton 
at  his  side  to  entertain  him  and  wait  upon  him.  Her  com 
munication  did  not  have  the  expected  effect  The  child 
languished;  desired  to  lie  abed  until  noon;  barely  touched 
his  food  and,  what  alarmed  Frau  Ursula  most  of  all,  barely 
glanced  at  a  book. 

A  tremendous  resolution  was  hardening  in  him,  if  she 
had  only  known  it.  He  had  lain  awake  the  better  part  of 
the  night  following  his  violent  outbreak  against  his  "father." 
At  other  times  insomnia  caused  him  to  appeal  for  relief  to 
his  mother.  Not  so  that  night.  He  welcomed  his  sleepless 
ness  because  it  enabled  him  to  think  out  the  matter  he  had 
in  hand,  without  suffering  the  inevitable  interruptions  of 
daytime.  At  first  the  hatred  of  his  father,  which  hammered 
in  temple  and  pulse  and  heart,  inhibited  thought.  As  he 
became  calmer,  he  began  to  think  around  and  about  the 
subject.  Several  points  stood  out.  One  was  that  it  was 
base  to  accept  shelter  and  food  from  a  man  whom  he  hated 
as  bitterly  and  despised  as  thoroughly  as  he  hated  and  de 
spised  his  father.  The  second  point  was  that  there  must 
be  some  avenue  of  escape  from  the  insufferable  situation. 
Other  little  boys  he  had  read  of  had  run  away  from  home  for 
smaller  provocation.  Some  had  prospered  amazingly.  But 
he  lacked  even  the  frail  strength  of  a  Dick  Whittington. 
For  him,  then,  there  was  open  only  one  avenue  of  escape 
— death. 

Some  philosopher  has  pointed  out  that  the  would-be  sui 
cide  is  in  reality  not  a  misanthrope  but  a  person  a-hunger 
and  a-thirst  for  a  wider  scope  of  life  than  lies  within  his 
reach.  Our  unfortunate  little  hero  exemplified  this  con 
tention.  The  tears  coursed  silently  but  abundantly  down 

181 


182  THE  HYPHEN 

his  cheeks  during  that  bitter  all-night  vigil,  as  he  reflected 
that  the  broad  highway  of  life  was  not  for  him. 

The  thought  of  suicide  was  repulsive  to  him  in  the  ex 
treme,  not  because  it  envisaged  extinction,  of  which  he  had 
only  the  feeblest  of  notions,  but  because  it  involved  a  con 
siderable  expenditure  of  initiative  and  violence.  The  lad's 
abnormal  condition  of  living  had  inhibited  in  him  to  a 
great  extent  the  impulse  of  natural  boyhood  toward  un 
thinking,  subconscious  activity.  He  was  almost  entirely  de 
ficient  in  those  healthy  animal  reflexes  in  which  a  normal 
childhood  abounds.  His  over-stimulated  brain  bore  the 
brunt  of  this  unnatural  condition.  It  trespassed  into  by 
paths  of  whose  very  existence  childhood  should  be  ig 
norant. 

He  had  read  somewheres  that  the  Hindus  possess  the 
questionable  art  of  extinguishing  life  by  the  simple  expe 
dient  of  holding  their  breath.  He  decided  to  try  this  ex 
periment  at  once.  Eons  seemed  to  elapse  while  his  respir 
atory  organs  remained  in  a  state  of  voluntary  paralysis 
without  causing  him  any  physical  discomfort.  He  grew 
hot  with  fright.  He  almost  regretted  having  embarked 
summarily  upon  this  great  adventure.  Physical  discomfort 
began  and  put  an  end  to  these  cogitations.  A  strange  full 
ness  became  noticable  in  pharynx  and  throat  and  ears. 
This  fullness  presently  expanded,  encroaching  upon  chest 
and  heart.  It  grew,  waxed,  throve,  extending  itself  to  ears, 
eyes,  abdomen.  It  reached  out  for  his  limbs.  It  became  in 
sufferable — and  then  with  an  expectant  sob  the  unholy 
spell  was  broken,  and  without  any  conscious  effort  on  his 
own  part  the  blessed  air  again  filled  nose  and  throat  and 
lungs. 

He  was,  truth  to  tell,  enormously  relieved  to  find  him 
self  still  alive.  To  die  so  quickly,  so  unceremoniously,  was 
to  curtail  the  drama  of  life  unduly.  He  desired  a  slowly 
descending  curtain.  He  was  quite  certain  that  his  decision 
to  throw  away  the  boon  of  life  was  the  only  means  within 
his  power  to  end  his  dependence  upon  his  father  for  food 
and  drink.  He  was  quite  certain  that  his  decision  was  irre 
vocable.  But  he  wished  to  procrastinate.  His  zest  in  the 
adventure  of  life  was  so  keen  that  he  desired  to  enjoy  even 
the  savor  of  oncoming  death. 

A  marvelous  thought  came  to  him.     He  would  abstain 


CHILDHOOD  183 

from  food,  eating  only  a  little  at  each  meal,  so  as  to  avoid 
arousing  suspicion.  Also  it  would  be  necessary  to  leave 
some  paper — some  document — making  it  plain  to  his 
mother  why  he  had  done  the  thing  he  contemplated  doing. 
He  cast  about  for  a  suitable  form.  He  hit  upon  it  quickly. 
He  would  model  his  Declaration  of  Death  upon  the  Declar 
ation  of  Independence.  He  immediately  began  exercising 
his  faculties  upon  the  phraseology  which  he  would  employ. 
The  joy  of  the  artistic  paraphraser  was  upon  him,  tranquil 
lizing  and  soothing  him.  And  in  the  midst  of  his  silent 
rhetoric  he  fell  asleep. 

To  carry  out  his  plan  was  not  easy.  His  mother's  and 
Mrs.  Thornton's  vigilance  were  incessant.  He  was  forced 
to  make  elaborate  excuses  and  pleas  at  each  meal  to  explain 
the  sudden  cessation  of  his  appetite,  which  had  been  re 
markably  good  for  months.  The  two  women  finally  con 
cluded  that  something  had  disagreed  with  him.  A  sardine, 
partaken  of  a  week  ago,  was  fastened  upon  as  the  origin  of 
the  trouble,  and  the  specific  of  childhood  was  administered. 
The  unfortunate  child  in  consequence  endured  tortures,  for 
the  vile  medicine  increased  the  gripings  of  his  hunger. 

But  his  will-power  held.  His  appetite  remaining  in  abey 
ance,  Dr.  Koenig  was  summoned  and  prescribed  a  tonic, 
warranted  to  improve  the  appetite,  which  contained  quinine 
and  Calasaya  bark.  He  suggested  that  dainties  be  prepared 
to  tempt  Guido.  Accordingly  Frau  Ursula  baked  him  a 
chocolate  layer  cake,  of  which  he  was  particularly  fond. 
But  his  will-power,  or  obstinacy,  was  equal  to  the  situation. 
He  refused  to  eat  the  generous  slice  of  deliciously  smelling 
cake  which  his  mother  brought  him.  She  did  not  remove 
it,  but  placed  it  on  a  small  table  within  reach.  He  desired 
ardently  that  she  would  remove  it,  but  he  lacked  the  impu 
dence  to  pretend  that  the  delicious  morsel  revolted  him, 
and  he  could  think  of  no  other  reason  for  asking  that  the 
cake  be  taken  away.  So  he  resigned  himself  to  bear  this 
additional  torture.  The  appetite-creating  medicine  arrived, 
and  he  had  to  swallow  a  huge  dose  of  that,  and  his  appetite 
and  his  sufferings  throve  accordingly.  But  he  would  not 
allow  himself  to  be  deflected  from  the  path  which  he  had 
mapped  out  for  himself.  He  was  the  champion  of  a  prin 
ciple  and  he  would  adhere  to  it. 

By  the  end  of  that  afternoon  he  was  in  acute  torment. 


184  THE  HYPHEN 

The  layer-cake,  in  all  its  tempting  exquisiteness,  remained 
where  he  could  and  must  see  it.  He  was  on  the  rack.  Lit 
erally,  not  figuratively,  his  mouth  watered  so  plentifully 
that  he  was  forced  to  swallow  continuously,  and  the  ptya- 
lin,  in  lieu  of  normal  food,  seemed  to  be  exercising  its 
digestive  arts  upon  his  stomach.  He  could  not  read.  He 
could  not  knit.  He  could  not  play  solitaire.  He  could  not 
talk  to  his  mother.  He  could  not  even  play  the  dictionary 
game. 

Once  or  twice  he  reached  out  his  hand  toward  the  cake 
merely  to  enjoy  a  closer  view  of  its  beauty,  so  he  told  him 
self.  But  he  withdrew  his  hand  every  time  without  touch 
ing  the  plate.  He  knew  that  he  was  cheating  himself.  He 
knew  that  if  he  touched  the  plate  he  would  succumb  to  the 
charms  of  the  cake  and  that  he  would  eat  not  only  the  cake 
but  the  delicious  luncheon  which  his  mother  had  set  before 
him,  and  the  most  tempting  dishes  of  which  had  also  been 
left  on  his  bureau. 

He  suffered  profoundly.  He  had  endured  much  in  the 
eleven  years  of  his  life,  but  all  the  other  miseries  of  his 
childhood,  cauterization  of  the  back,  the  discomfort  and  pain 
following  an  operation,  the  probing  for  pus  with  the  cruel 
little  syringe  that  worked  like  a  tiny  suction  pump,  paled 
into  insignificance  before  the  self-inflicted  immolation  of 
this  day.  The  physical  and  mental  anguish  of  it  lived  with 
him  all  through  life  with  a  harsh,  unrelenting  vividness 
which  nothing  could  extinguish  or  dim. 

When  his  mother  brought  his  supper  he  made  as  if  to 
eat  a  little,  this  being  part  of  his  program.  But  a  curious 
thing  happened.  The  first  mouthful  nauseated  him  com 
pletely.  All  desire  for  food  left  him.  He  even  loathed  it. 
A  complete  revulsion  had  set  in. 

"I  cannot  eat,  Mutterchen,  I  really  cannot." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  genuineness  of  his  words. 
His  mother,  with  a  smothered  sigh,  removed  the  tray,  her 
anxiety  increased  a  hundredfold. 

Guido  felt  so  light-headed  and  faint  that  he  was  sure  he 
was  going  to  die  at  once.  He  became  frightened.  He  had 
done  all  in  his  power  to  invoke  the  end  which  he  now  be 
lieved  imminent,  and  yet — so  tremendous  is  the  love  of  life 
which  dwells  in  all  of  us — he  was  plunged  into  cold  terror. 
He  did  not  want  to  die,  he  found.  Most  passionately  he 


CHILDHOOD  185 

did  not  want  to  die.  He  wanted  to  live.  All  the  feeble 
strength  in  his  blood  called  out  for  life  and  activity. 

For  the  first  time  since  reaching  the  great  decision  he 
began  to  temporize.  Was  a  compromise  not  possible? 
After  all,  was  it  not  perhaps  merely  the  duty  of  his  father 
to  support  him  while  he  was  a  minor?  That  seemed  to  be 
the  custom  everywhere.  When  he  was  older — just  a  little 
older — he  would  do  something  wonderful,  something  start 
ling.  He  would  write  a  book  which  would  pour  wealth  un 
imaginable  into  his  lap.  Then  we  would  be  able  to  repay 
his  father.  He  would  prove  himself  a  profitable  invest 
ment. 

What  to  write?  Something  like  Schiller's  Don  Carlos. 
No,  he  was  an  American,  not  a  German.  Something  like 
the  novels  of  Dickens,  perhaps,  which  Mrs.  Thornton,  like 
the  unforgettable  Hugh  Hastings,  was  forever  reading.  Or 
that  greater  novelist  whom  his  mother  was  so  fond  of — 
Thackeray.  Finally,  however,  he  rejected  these  minor  celeb 
rities  and  fastened  upon  Milton.  He  would  do  something 
really  big — something  like  Paradise  Lost.  It  did  not 
trouble  him  that,  at  present,  he  was  not  even  able  to  read 
that  marvelous  epic  comprehendingly.  He  intended  writ 
ing  its  counterpart — when  a  little  older.  And  he  was 
sweetly  oblivious  of  the  cogent  fact  that  golden  shekels  are 
earned  by  popular,  not  by  great  literary  productions. 

His  mother,  meanwhile,  more  alarmed  than  she  had  been 
in  a  long  time,  had  telephoned  Dr.  Koenig,  asking  him  to 
come  at  once. 

The  old  physician  did  not  examine  Guido  that  evening, 
as  Frau  Ursula  had  hoped  he  would  do.  He  contented 
himself  with  sitting  at  the  boy's  bedside,  and  chatting  with 
him.  In  the  hall,  to  which  he  motioned  Frau  Ursula  before 
leaving,  because  Guido  could  not  hear  what  was  passing 
there,  he  said: 

"The  boy  has  had  some  nervous  shock.  It's  not  that  he 
can't  eat,  but  that  he  won't.  He  has  every  sympton  of  a 
patient  suffering  from  acute  hunger.  He  is  ravenous.  If 
we  cannot  persuade  him  to  eat  to-morrow,  we  will  have  to 
resort  to  forced  feeding." 

Frau  Ursula  looked  very  grave. 

Dr.  Koenig  resumed: 

"How  about  Vasalov?"  he  asked.     "Dobronov?    Could 


i86  THE  HYPHEN 

either  of  them  have  been  indiscreet  enough  to  reveal  to  the 
boy  that  you  are  not  his  mother?" 

"No,  I  think  not."  Frau  Ursula  hesitated  a  moment  and 
then  told  Dr.  Koenig  of  the  malevolence  with  which  Hauser 
had  treated  the  boy,  and  of  the  violent  quarrel  in  which 
Hauser's  outrageous  treatment  of  the  boy  had  culminated. 

"H'm,"  said  Dr.  Koenig,  meditatively,  "the  two  are  the 
very  antitheses  of  human  types.  Their  antagonism  rests 
upon  some  basic  law  of  nature  which  some  Darwin  or  Wal 
lace  of  the  future  must  yet  formulate  for  us.  There's  a 
difference  in  albumen,  verehrte  Frau.  Guinea-pigs  have 
been  poisoned  with  an  injection  of  serum  procured  from 
the  eyes  of  their  own  species.  There's  a  mystery  for  you. 
Rhythm,  too,  plays  a  subtle  part  in  the  human  economy. 
This  is  demonstrated  in  the  handwritings  of  various  indi 
viduals.  The  handwriting  expert  of  the  future,  by  compar 
ing  the  handwritings  of  different  individuals,  will  be  able 
to  tell  whether  they  are  inimically  or  friendlily  disposed. 
Then,  too,  there  may  be  an  astral  body.  The  N  rays  shed 
by  one  personality  may  blend  amicably  or  conflict  disas 
trously  with  the  N  rays  emanating  from  another  person!" 

Frau  Ursula  listened  with  some  impatience  to  the  Doc 
tor's  ruminations.  She  did  not  want  to  hear  about  serum, 
or  guinea-pigs,  or  rhythm,  or  albumen  or  astral  bodies.  All 
she  wanted  to  be  told  was  what  was  ailing  her  boy. 

"I'll  be  in  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning.  Then  we'll 
see  what's  to  be  done.  But  I'm  sure  his  abstention  from 
food  is  due  to  a  mental,  not  a  physical  cause." 

In  a  wholly  unexpected  way,  Dr.  Koenig's  theory  re 
ceived  confirmation  within  the  hour.  Frau  Ursula,  in  re 
turning  to  Guide's  room,  found  him  asleep.  As  usual, 
books  littered  his  bed,  and  she  removed  them  cautiously. 
In  doing  so,  one  of  the  books  opened  and  a  sheet  of  paper, 
twice  folded,  fluttered  to  the  floor.  The  superscription 
startled  her.  Hastily  depositing  the  books  on  a  chair,  she 
carried  her  find  to  her  own  room. 

The  superscription  which  had  caused  her  such  concern 
read :  "To  be  opened  after  my  death  by  my  mother.  Guido 
Hauser." 

With  trembling  hands  Frau  Ursula  unfolded  the  paper 
and  read  the  following  remarkable  epistle: 


CHILDHOOD  187 

When  in  the  cawse  of  humen  life  it  becomes  neces- 
arry  for  won  individjule  to  disolve  the  human  bands 
that  connect  him  with  another,  and  to  asoom  among 
the  spirrits  of  the  dead  the  equel  and  sepperret  station 
to  which  the  laws  of  natjure  entitel  him,  a  desent  re- 
speckt  for  the  opinnions  of  his  mother  requires  that  he 
should  declair  the  cawses  which  impell  him  to  this 
step. 

We  hold  these  trooths  to  be  self-evident  that  all 
boys  are  creayted  equel,  that  they  are  endoud  by  there 
creaytor  with  serten  inalyenable  rites,  that  among 
these  are  life,  libberty  and  the  pursoot  of  happiness. 
That  to  secgure  these  rites,  parents  are  institooted, 
deriving  their  just  powers  from  the  Creaytor,  that 
when  any  father  abyuses  these  powers,  it  is  the  rite  of 
his  son  to  escape  from  his  tiranny.  The  histry  of  my 
father  is  a  histry  of  repeeted  injuries  to  prove  this  let 
facts  be  submitted  to  my  candid  mother. 

He  has  at  times  entirely  ignored  me. 

He  has  been  brutal  to  me. 

He  has  tonted  me  becaws  I  am  weak  and  sick. 

He  has  tonted  me  becaws  the  doctor  has  forbidden 
that  I  must  not  be  whipped. 

He  has  ridicyuled  my  mother. 

He  has  pretended  things  about  me  which  are  not  troo 
and  wot  is  not  troo  is  a  lie. 

He  has  shone  he  hates  me. 

And  I  hate  him  and  will  no  longer  etc  wot  he  pais 
for  nor  be  beholden  to  him  for  my  medesinnes  and  for 
the  support  of  this  declaration,  with  a  firm  relians 
on  the  Creaytor,  I  commend  my  sole  to  him  when  I 
have  successfully  starved  myself  to  death. 

(Signed)  Guido  Hauser  (gezeichnet) 

Frau  Ursula  was  stunned.  She  had  not  believed  Dr. 
Koenig's  diagnosis,  but  this  funnily  pathetic  little  docu 
ment  proved  it  correct.  The  deliberation  with  which  the 
child  had  proceeded  to  carry  out  his  project  of  self-de 
struction  left  her  faint  with  panic  and  nausea. 

On  returning  to  Guide's  room  she  found  that  he  had 
wakened.  He  had  missed  the  books  from  his  bed,  and  had 
reached  them  from  the  chair,  and  now  sat  up  in  bed  hastily 


i88  THE  HYPHEN 

turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  book  from  which  Frau  Ur 
sula  had  taken  his  Declaration  of  Death.  His  gestures 
were  feverishly  urgent,  his  face  flushed. 

"There  was  a  paper  in  this  book,"  he  said,  "and  it  is 
gone." 

"I  have  it,"  Frau  Ursula  replied,  showing  it  to  him, 
"and  I  have  read  it." 

The  boy's  lip  began  to  tremble. 

"Guido,  when  you  wrote  this,  dear,  didn't  you  think  at 
all  of  the  pain  you  were  going  to  cause  me?"  she  asked, 
with  the  utmost  gentleness.  She  had  seated  herself  on  the 
side  of  his  bed,  and  had  taken  his  hand  in  hers. 

"Ach,  Mutterchen!"  he  turned  white  to  the  very  lips. 

Frau  Ursula  shivered  a  little.  Was  hatred  so  much  more 
potent  than  love?  Or  was  there  present  in  the  child's  soul 
a  homicidal  instinct,  inherited  from  his  fanatic  mother? 
Or,  again,  had  the  child's  fine  sensibilities  simply  been  tor 
tured  beyond  endurance? 

"Answer  me,  mein  Liebling,"  she  said. 

"Mother,  do  not  look  at  me  like  that — I  can't  stand  it." 
He  flung  his  arms  about  his  mother,  and  clung  to  her  con 
vulsively. 

"Guido,  darling,  I  thought  I  enjoyed  your  entire  confi 
dence.  It  seems  I  was  mistaken.  If  my  little  lad  had  come 
to  me  with  his  trouble  I  might  have  helped  him  and  saved 
him  and  myself  a  very  painful  experience." 

The  child  began  to  sob. 

"Guido,  mein  lieber  Junge,  you  must  not  cry.  I  have 
several  things  of  importance  to  tell  you,  but  I  cannot  tell 
them  if  you  cry  like  that.  So,  that's  better.  First  of  all, 
dear,  you  are  not  indebted  to  your  father  for  your  upkeep. 
I  have  independent  means,  and  you  have  quite  a  little  for 
tune  of  your  own  waiting  for  you  when  you  come  of  age. 
Meanwhile  out  of  my  own  income,  I  have  always  defrayed 
all  expenses  for  you  and  myself — your  food,  clothes,  part- 
rent,  the  salary  for  your  nurse,  your  medicines  and  doctor's 
bills." 

"Mutterchen!     Wirklich?"     There  was   a  note  in  the 
child's  voice  that  smote  her  cruelly.     How  he  must  have 
suffered  that  his  relief  should  be  so  great ! 
'"Wirklich,  mein  Herz,  and  what  is  more,  if  your  father 


CHILDHOOD  189 

continues  to  badger  you,  we — you  and  I — will  go  away  and 
live  by  ourselves." 

Guido   again  began  to  cry. 

"My  father  would  not  like  that  at  all,"  he  sobbed.  "I 
think  he  hates  me  so  because  you  love  me  so  much." 

"Come  dear,  stop  crying,"  said  Frau  Ursula.  "Will  you 
be  a  good  boy  and  eat  something  now  ?" 

"Yes,  Mother." 

"Some  nice  warm  milk-toast,  with  lots  of  butter  and 
sugar  and  cream?" 

"Yes,  Mother." 

"And  there'll  be  no  more  nonsense  ?" 

"No,  Mother." 

Frau  Ursula  called  Mrs.  Thornton  and  asked  her  to  at 
tend  to  Guido.  She  herself  must  speak  to  Hauser.  She 
had  no  very  definite  idea  of  what  she  was  going  to  say,  but 
speak  to  him  she  must  and  that  at  once.  For  one  thing 
she  was  now  willing  to  humble  herself  to  the  extent  of  pro 
ducing  proofs  of  Guide's  identity.  She  felt  that  there  must 
be  truth  between  herself  and  her  husband — truth  absolute 
and  unequivocal.  She  found  that  she  blamed  herself  subtly 
for  the  tragedy  which  Guido  had  been  preparing.  She  was, 
strange  to  say,  not  as  angry  and  as  indignant  with  Hauser 
as  might  have  been  expected. 

Equipped  with  the  daguerreotype  of  the  first  Guido  which 
Dr.  Koenig  had  given  her,  she  entered  the  dining  room 
where  Hauser  was  sitting  over  his  accounts.  So  white  was 
her  face  that  Hauser,  on  glancing  up  as  she  entered,  in 
voluntarily  started  to  his  feet. 

"Ursula,  are  you  ill  ?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head  in  negation  and  handed  him  Guide's 
mortuary  proclamation. 

"Read  that,"  she  commanded. 

He  scanned  the  paper  hastily.     His  face  darkened. 

"Twaddle,"  he  commented,  but  when  he  came  to  the  ar 
raignment  of  himself,  his  hand  trembled  visibly. 

"Guide's  been  trying  to  starve  himself  for  a  week,"  she 
said,  when  he  had  finished  reading.  "I  had  Dr.  Koenig  in 
this  evening — thinking  some  new  ailment  was  developing. 
But  he  assured  me  there  was  a  mental  not  a  physical  cause 
for  the  boy's  persistent  refusal  to  eat.  Afterwards,  by 
chance,  I  found  this  paper.  I  was  forced  to  tell  him  that 


190  THE  HYPHEN 

your  money  did  not  pay  for  his  board  and  medical  care. 
But  I  cannot  keep  him  confined  to  his  room  indefinitely, 
and  if  you  persist  in  treating  him  as  you  did  a  week  ago 
I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  leave  you." 

Frau  Ursula  stopped  speaking  abruptly.  She  was 
frightened.  She  could  not  have  said  why. 

"You  are  NOT  going  to  leave  me,"  said  Hauser.  "I 
absolutely  refuse  a  divorce." 

"There  is,  however,  nothing  to  prevent  me  from  leaving 
your  house  and  never  coming  back." 

"No,"  said  Hauser,  very  quietly,  "there  is  nothing  to  pre 
vent  that." 

Frau  Ursula  became  overwhelmingly  aware  that  she  had 
no  desire  and  no  intention  to  carry  into  effect  this  tacit 
threat.  She  said: 

"I  am  going  to  be  perfectly  candid  with  you.  I  would 
rather  not  leave  you.  I  am  horribly  afraid  of  Vasalov,  al 
though  you  persist  in  pooh-poohing  the  idea  that  he  will 
try  to  abduct  Guido.  And — well — the  fact  is,  I  feel  safer 
with  you  to  protect  me  than  I  would  if  I  lived  alone  with 
Guido.  All  this,  of  course,  is  very  selfish  of  me,  but  it  is 
the  truth." 

A  strange  look  of  pleasure,  kindly  and  refined,  passed 
over  Hauser's  face. 

"Thank  you  for  trusting  me  to  that  extent,"  he  said, 
gently. 

"There's  another  thing,"  she  said,  and  now  she  was 
speaking  in  a  forced  unnatural  voice  which  made  Hauser 
glance  at  her  sharply.  "I  told  you  I  had  proofs  concern 
ing  Guido's  parentage.  I  am  going  to  show  them  to  you 
now.  I  think  it  will  make  a  change  in  our  relations." 

Her  heart  was  beating  so  violently  that  she  was  forced 
to  pause  for  a  moment. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  see  them,"  said  Hauser,  convention 
ally  civil. 

Frau  Ursula  pushed  the  small  daguerreotype  across  the 
table  toward  Hauser. 

"Dr.  Koenig  gave  it  to  me.  He  was  a  friend  of  Guido's 
grandfather,  the  von  Estritz  who  emigrated  to  this  country 
in  '48.  You  can  see  the  resemblance  for  yourself." 

Hauser  picked  up  the  shabby  little  case,  with  its  flourish 
of  scroll-work,  and  closely  scrutinized  the  faded  daguerreo- 


CHILDHOOD  191 

type  which  looked  up  at  him  from  its  frame  of  faded  rose 
velvet.  After  a  long  time  he  closed  the  little  folding  case 
very  gently,  and  handed  it  back  to  his  wife. 

"Thank  you  for  letting  me  see  this,  Ursula,"  he  said. 

"And  haven't  you  a  word  of  apology  for  so  shamefully 
suspecting  me  all  these  years?" 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Ursula.  Very.  You  must  forgive 
me." 

This  was  not  as  submissive  a  submission  as  she  had  hoped 
for  and  as  she  felt  she  was  entitled  to  expect.  But  it 
sufficed. 

Truth  to  tell  he  was  no  more  convinced  of  Guido's  nativ 
ity  than  he  had  even  been.  Good-nature,  compassion,  love 
made  him  seem  persuaded.  The  proof  which  to  his  wife 
seemed  so  irrefutable  seemed  to  him  no  proof  at  all.  Her 
motive  for  loving  the  child  as  passionately  as  she  did  re 
mained  unexplained  and  it  was  this  passionate  attachment 
of  hers  for  the  boy  which  perplexed  him,  and  tried  him  so 
sorely,  and  was  the  corner-stone  and  foundation  of  his  sus 
picion. 

Even  if  Frau  Ursula  had  been  cognizant  of  the  inevitable 
effect  on  Mauser's  mind  of  her  failure  to  supply  this  omis 
sion,  it  is  doubtful  whether  an  explanation  would  have 
been  forthcoming.  To  avow  herself  unloved  by  the  man 
to  whom  she  had  given  the  most  delicately  distilled  bloom 
of  her  love  and  worship  is  an  act  of  heroism  to  which  few 
women  can  rise.  In  spite  of  her  contempt  for  the  unnam- 
able  sisterhood  with  which  Hauser  had  identified  her,  Frau 
Ursula  would  sooner  have  proclaimed  herself  guilty  of  an 
imprudence  than  admit  that  her  love  had  not  been  recip 
rocated.  Wherein  lies  still  another  of  the  subtle  differ 
ences  which  build  up  the  barrier  of  sex  psychology;  for 
what  man,  loving  but  unloved,  would  see  in  his  state  of 
being  unloved  a  thing  to  be  ashamed  of? 

Moreover,  as  no  two  landscape  painters  will  paint  the 
same  presentment  of  the  same  bit  of  hedge  and  meadow- 
land,  so  no  two  sets  of  eyes  see  a  human  face  from  the 
same  angle  and  in  the  same  focus.  In  other  words,  one 
eye  sees  a  resemblance  to  this  relative,  another  eye  detects 
a  likeness  to  a  different  kinsman. 

Vavara  Alexandrovna  and  Dmitri  Stepanovich  bore  a 
striking  likeness  to  each  other.  Guido  resembled  both  his 


i92  THE  HYPHEN 

paternal  grandfather  and  his  own  mother.  Hauser,  with 
his  mind  perversely  filled  with  the  conviction  that  Vasalov 
had  been  his  wife's  lover,  saw  Guide's  resemblance  to  Vasa 
lov;  Frau  Ursula,  her  mind  as  inalienably  fixed  on  the 
glories  of  the  house  of  von  Estritz  saw  only  the  von  Estritz 
resemblance. 

And  so  Hauser  and  Mauser's  wife  were  further  apart 
than  ever,  but  Hauser's  wife  did  not  know  it.  As  the 
days  slipped  by  she  saw  in  her  husband's  continued  gentle 
ness  to  herself  and  renewed  kindness  to  the  boy  an  earnest 
of  a  new  dawn.  He  showed  a  very  lovable  and  human 
side  of  his  character  in  these  days.  She,  with  very  good 
grace,  selected  the  plans  for  the  house  and  the  site  on  which 
it  was  to  be  built.  That  pleased  him  enormously,  and  in 
consequence,  he  put  his  best  foot  forward.  The  convic 
tion  was  born  in  Frau  Ursula  that  they  would  yet  be  happy. 

She  tried  forcibly  to  stifle  the  memory  of  Guido's  pitiful 
document,  she  tried  to  forget  the  agony  of  the  days  through 
which  both  Guido  and  herself  had  lived  during  the  weeks 
preceding  the  discovery  of  that  document. 

Once  or  twice  she  essayed  trifling  overtures.  Hauser 
ignored  them — or  did  not  perceive  them.  Vasalov's  re- 
emergence  had  evoked  Hauser's  jealousy  in  triple  extract, 
and  jealousy,  like  all  passions,  clouds  the  reasoning  facul 
ties. 

One  evening  Hauser  forgot  his  promise  and  began  to 
heckle  Guido  at  the  dinner-table.  The  lad  behaved  admir 
ably.  He  did  not  answer  Hauser  at  all,  and  as  soon  as  he 
had  finished  his  meat-course,  he  excused  himself  and  left 
the  table. 

"Erich,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  following  a  sudden  impulse, 
"don't  let  us  go  back  to  that,  please  don't!  We've  been 
going  along  so  pleasantly." 

"Pleasantly,"  said  Hauser,  sardonically. 

"Pleasantly  enough,"  she  modified  her  statement.  "Per 
haps  not  as  pleasantly  as  you  might  wish."  She  threw  this 
out  jerkily,  as  an  afterthought.  To  escape  the  lashings  of 
her  conscience,  if  for  no  other  reason,  she  desired  a  com 
plete  reconciliation  which  would  place  their  mock  marriage 
upon  an  honest  and  unequivocal  footing. 

He  looked  at  her  sharply.  She  blushed,  and  said  tremu 
lously  : 


CHILDHOOD  193 

"Hauser,  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  take  up  our  romance 
where  we  dropped  it  on  the  dreadful  day  when  Vasalov 
appeared." 

It  was  unfortunate  that  she  mentioned  Vasalov's  name. 
Hauser  tingled  in  every  nerve  with  impotent  rancor  and 
resentment.  Reddening,  he  said,  indignantly: 

"What  a  sensualist  you  must  think  me." 

It  was  crass,  it  was  crude,  it  was  banal.  Frau  Ursula 
almost  wept  with  shame.  Why,  she  demanded  of  herself, 
why  was  he  so  willfully  blind? 

All  the  mortification  and  shame  of  a  woman  who  feels 
herself  rejected  swept  over  her.  But  pride,  or  modesty — 
and  what,  in  matters  such  as  these  is  pride  but  a  barricade 
for  modesty — forbade  that  she  espouse  the  straightforward 
course  with  him.  She  lacked  the  hardihood  to  tell  her  hus 
band  frankly  that  she  loved  him,  that  she  had  forgiven  him 
for  his  unkindness  in  the  past  and  that  the  pretended  barter 
of  her  love  had  been  a  silly,  clumsy  subterfuge  to  draw 
from  him  renewed  protestations  of  his  regard. 

After  this  they  drifted  further  apart  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  X 

EARLY  in  May  Guido  began  to  improve  rapidly.  His  at 
tempt  to  starve  himself  had  thrown  him  back  cruelly. 
But  now  he  suddenly  blossomed  out  into  something  like 
boyish  wiriness  and  strength.  He  took  long  walks  without 
being  fatigued.  His  flesh  became  firm  and  healthy  to  the 
touch,  his  complexion  lost  its  spectral  whiteness.  And  yet, 
with  all  this  show  of  returning  health,  he  lost  none  of  his 
slim,  native  elegance  nor  the  sense  of  spirituality  which  im 
pressed  strangers  so  strongly  upon  first  seeing  the  child. 
His  dark,  liquidly  luminous  eyes,  the  black  hair  which 
curled  ever  so  lightly  at  the  temples  and  above  the  brow, 
made  his  white  skin  seem  more  dazzlingly  white  by  con 
trast.  He  was  a  very  beautiful  little  boy  in  these  days  of 
returning  health.  Women  turned  to  look  at  him  on  the 
street  with  half-smothered  ejaculations  of  pleasure  in  the 
pretty  child.  Mrs.  Thornton,  speaking  to  Frau  Ursula,  pro 
nounced  him  too  comely  for  an  age  of  corduroy  and  Nor 
folk  jackets.  He  would  have  adorned  an  earlier  era  when 
dark  blue  velvet  and  Van  Dyck  lace  collars  and  cuffs,  and 
sashes  of  tasseled  silk  were  thought  appropriate  for  little 
lads  as  well  as  for  little  damsels. 

Mrs.  Thornton,  her  employment  gone,  entered  the  Anas- 
quoit  Hospital  to  take  a  course  in  nursing.  The  new  house 
was  begun  and  the  builder  promised  to  have  it  ready  by 
the  end  of  August.  Hauser  rarely  came  home  for  supper 
these  days.  The  new  store,  the  Leviathan,  with  the  enor 
mously  extended  responsibilities  which  it  entailed,  was  a 
severe  taskmaster. 

But  the  great  event  of  the  spring  of  1910  as  far  as  the 
Hauser  household  was  concerned  was  Guide's  return  to 
school. 

That  return  was  in  the  nature  of  a  transplantation  after 
the  lad's  two  years'  exile  in  bed.  School  was  bound  to  be 
a  tremendous  adventure  by  virtue  both  of  the  commonest 
commonplace  and  the  stirringly  exciting. 

194 


CHILDHOOD  195 

The  commonplace  was  comprised  in  the  deadly  routine. 
Excitement  was  supplied  by  the  bewildering  variety  of 
characters  unrolled  before  Guide's  dazzled  eyes.  He  had 
assumed  that  all  boys  were  patterned  after  Otto's  fashion, 
or  his  own,  but  principally  after  Otto's.  In  some  ways  he 
knew  Otto  better  than  he  knew  himself,  Otto,  who  was  con 
sistently  rough,  brutal  sometimes,  unmannerly  as  a  matter 
of  conviction,  kind-hearted  generally,  and — first,  last  and 
all  the  time,  with  the  emphasis  which  is  carried  only  by  the 
traits  of  which  we  are  all  unconscious — genuine. 

He  found  that  boys  instead  of  being  as  like  as  peas  are 
as  different  as  different  varieties  of  dogs. 

To  begin  with  there  was  Henry  Foerster,  a  queer,  shy, 
reticent  boy.  Guido  thought  from  Henry's  manner  that 
Henry  had  taken  an  insuperable  dislike  to  himself.  But 
one  day  when  Guide's  pencil-box  had  met  with  an  accident 
and  all  his  pencils  in  consequence  were  reduced  to  point- 
lessness,  Henry,  without  a  word,  slipped  Guido  one  of 
his  own  impeccable  pencils.  Later,  at  recess,  when  Guido 
thanked  him  for  saving  him  from  a  "bad"  mark,  Henry 
flushed  and  walked  away.  He  was  neither  a  very  clever 
nor  a  very  studious  boy,  yet  somehow  he  never  flunked  his 
exams.  He  was  never  known  to  speak  when  he  could  help 
himself,  and  the  boys  had  nicknamed  him  "the  Dummy." 

Then  there  was  Eddie  Erdman.  Eddie  was  hopelessly, 
grimy — always. 

"It's  because  he's  so  fat,"  Otto  elucidated,  within  hearing 
of  the  grimy  one,  "the  dirt  sticks  to  him  like  it  was  greased 
on.  See?"" 

Guido  smothered  a  laugh.  He  was  a  very  polite  little 
boy,  and  he  felt  that  to  laugh  at  Otto's  sally  would  have 
been  to  disgrace  himself.  He  fully  expected  a  first-class 
fight  to  ensue  between  Otto  and  Eddie,  but  Fatty,  instead 
of  resenting  the  insult,  laughed  along  with  the  rest. 

"We're  going  to  change  his  name  to  'Rhino,' "  said 
naughty-tongued  Otto,  "because  he  has  a  hide  like  a  rhino 
ceros." 

This  caused  a  new  roar  of  laughter,  Rhino  again  joining 
in  with  the  others. 

"I  think  it's  just  grand  to  have  two  nick-names,"  he 
said,  "some  of  you  ain't  popular  enough  to  have  even  one." 
And  as  a  test  of  his  popularity,  he  stuck  out  his  tongue 


196  THE  HYPHEN 

and  made  a  "long  nose."  Then,  to  cap  the  climax,  he 
kicked  up  his  heels  in  imitation  of  a  ballet  dancer.  Guido 
could  see  that  in  spite  of  his  fleshiness  he  was  very  grace 
ful,  but  he  was  trying  to  make  himself  appear  clumsy  and 
ungainly. 

All  this  happened  at  recess.  The  children  were  out  on 
the  street,  and  two  little  girls  of  their  class  passed  them 
at  this  moment. 

Eddie  danced  up  to  them  and  in  a  high  falsetto  voice  in 
vited  them  to  dance. 

"Nayther  of  you  will  honor  may,"  he  squealed.  "Oh, 
dare,  oh  dare,  I  shall  weep.  I  should  so  lo-o-o-o-ve  to  have 
ye  languish  in  me  arms,  me  darlints." 

Erna  Friedman  and  Lieschen  Schlick,  highly  affronted, 
walked  away,  noses  high  in  air,  the  picture  of  pigtailed  dig 
nity. 

"My  farder  says  Eddie  is  a  born  comedian,"  Otto  con 
fided  to  Guido.  "My  farder  says  he'll  do  something  big  on 
the  vaudeville  stage  one  of  these  days." 

Then  there  was  a  boy  who  was  the  happy  possessor  of 
the  syllable  "von" — magic  insignia  of  rank — as  a  prefix  to 
his  surname.  Egon  von  Dammer  was  a  curious  lad.  In 
some  respects  he  did  not  seem  like  a  boy  at  all  but  like  a 
little  old  man. 

Face  and  figure  were  youthful  enough.  He  was,  in  fact, 
in  wonderful  physical  trim  and  always  immaculately  neat. 
Besides  Guido  he  was  the  only  neat  boy  in  the  class,  and 
Egon  and  Elschen  Marlow  were  unique  among  the  chil 
dren  of  the  entire  school  in  that  they  had  been  born  in  Ger 
many,  a  circumstance  which  earned  Egon  the  sobriquet 
of  "Dutch." 

And  yet  no  strict  constructionist  would  have  called  the 
boy  typically  German,  excepting  perhaps  for  the  arrogance 
which  peered  from  every  feature  of  the  boyish  face  and 
for  the  never-ceasing  diligence  with  which  he  applied  him 
self  to  his  tasks.  He  had  been  to  school  in  Germany  for 
two  years ;  spent  a  year  in  Paris  in  a  boy's  school  and  one 
in  England.  He  was  a  born  linguist  and  had  a  well-nigh 
perfect  command  of  the  three  great  modern  tongues.  He 
spoke  English  not  with  the  German  accent  which  marred 
the  speech  of  the  other  boys  but  with  an  accent  which  was 
decidedly  English.  He  pronounced  "either"  and  "neither" 


CHILDHOOD  197 

in  the  English  way,  and  said  "nevyou"  instead  of  nephew, 
pointing  out  to  the  Language  teacher  who  corrected  him 
that  his  parents  desired  him  to  speak  English,  not  United 
States.  The  teacher,  a  young  woman,  flushed  and  without 
further  comment  continued  the  lesson.  For  some  reason 
Egon's  impertinence  to  the  teacher  fell  flat.  His  class 
mates  did  not  approve  of  it.  Instinctively  they  felt  that 
Egon's  brand  of  sauciness  was  rooted  in  something  omi 
nous  and  sinister.  They  themselves — the  others — might 
"answer  back"  upon  occasion,  but  deep  in  their  hearts  they 
had  a  wholesome  respect  for  their  teachers,  and  there  was 
moreover,  a  dead-line  which  their  boyish  impudence  never 
essayed  to  pass.  Also,  they  resented  Egon's  contempt  be 
cause  it  glanced  at  themselves.  The  boy  with  the  "von" 
before  his  name  was  not  popular  among  his  class-mates. 

On  the  second  morning  during  recess  Egon  von  Dammer 
came  up  to  Guido. 

"You're  different  from  the  other  boys,"  he  said,  with 
quiet  effrontery,  by  way  of  introduction.  "You  look  differ 
ent  and  you  speak  differently,  too.  Your  name  also  is 
different.  'Guido'  is  a  very  aristocratic  name.  It's  as  good 
as  mine.  Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"I  suppose  my  parents  gave  it  to  me  same  as  your  par 
ents  gave  you  yours,"  Guido  replied.  Egon's  insolence  had 
set  his  brittle  temper  to  crackling,  and  Egon  perceived  this. 
He  laughed,  lightly. 

"You're  jolly  well  mistaken,"  he  said.  "My  parents 
didn't  give  me  my  name.  My  name  was  given  to  me  cen 
turies  ago — before  I  was  born.  The  eldest  son  of  the  von 
Dammers,  juengere  Linie,  for  twenty  generations  has  al 
ways  been  named  Egon." 

In  spite  of  himself  Guido  was  impressed.  He  was  too 
inexperienced  to  cover  his  defeat  by  a  quick  parry.  He 
felt  and  looked  foolish. 

"What's  your  last  name?"  the  ruthless  Egon  continued. 

"Hauser." 

"H'm.  Doesn't  fit  with  Guido.  Must  have  gotten  Guido 
from  your  mother's  side.  What  was  your  mother's  maiden 
name  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  And  if  I  did,  I  wouldn't  tell  you," 
said  Guido.  He  was  furious. 


198  THE  HYPHEN 

"Oh,  yes,  you  would,"  Egon  retorted,  significantly,  "be 
cause  it  would  be  sure  to  be  something  good." 

Guido's  wrath  was  appeased.  After  all,  it  was  a  rather 
fine  thing  to  be  singled  out  by  the  prince  of  the  class  as 
his  sole  peer. 

"You  ask  her  to-night,"  Egon  continued.  "You'll  see  I'm 
right." 

"I  won't  ask  her,"  Guido  retorted,  viciously.  "If  she'd 
wanted  to  tell  me  she'd  have  told  me  without  being  asked. 
So  there." 

"I  say,"  said  Egon  admiringly,  "you're  a  gentleman, 
you  are." 

"Well,  if  that's  being  a  gentleman,  what's  the  boy  who 
told  me  to  ask  her?" 

Egon  laughed  uproariously. 

"Believe  me,"  he  said,  in  his  delight  lapsing  into  Ameri 
can  slang,  which,  as  a  rule,  he  eschewed,  "you're  some  kid. 
I'm  going  to  like  you  tremendously." 

"Well,  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  I'm  going  to  like  you," 
our  young  hero  retorted,  with  a  crudeness  of  manner  which 
Otto  could  not  have  bettered. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are,"  Egon  assured  him,  calmly.  "Folks 
always  like  me  when  I'm  half-ways  decent  to  them." 

"Well,  why  aren't  you  half-ways  decent  to  everybody, 
then?" 

"Because  I  do  not  care  for  the  friendship  of  everybody. 
It  would  bore  me  to  death  to  have  all  the  rag-tag  of  this 
second-hand  school  fawning  on  me." 

"Fawning!"  gasped  Guido. 

"That's  what  I  said.  Take  it  from  me,  Guido,  the 
friendship  of  the  inferior  for  the  superior  amounts  to  noth 
ing  else,"  continued  the  amiable  scion  of  the  von  Dammers. 
"When  boys  are  on  the  same  plane,  they  bear  with  each 
other's  faults  because  as  a  class  they  have  the  same  aims  and 
amusements." 

Guido  gasped  again.  All  this  was  far  beyond  him.  It 
took  him  several  years  to  discover  that  whereas  Otto 
frankly  quoted  his  "farder"  on  every  possible  occasion, 
Egon  von  Dammer  grafted  the  parental  scraps  of  wisdom 
upon  his  own  juvenile  stock  and  dispensed  the  result  as 
vintage  of  his  own  distilling. 

"My  mother's  name  was  Baroness  von  Dortitz,"  Egon 


CHILDHOOD  199 

continued.  "The  von  Dortitzes  rank  among  the  oldest  feu 
dal  nobility  of  Prussia,  as  the  syllable  'titz'  shows.  All 
names  ending  with  'titz'  or  'tritz'  are  among  Prussia's  best. 
And  I  had  a  brother  named  Ludolf.  He  was  a  year 
younger  than  myself.  He  killed  himself  when  he  was  nine 
years  old." 

Guide's  blood  receded  from  his  heart.  He  remembered 
his  own  abortive  attempt  at  suicide. 

"Why  did  your  brother  kill  himself?"  he  contrived  to 
ask. 

"Because  he  couldn't  learn  how  to  construe  Latin  or 
Greek." 

Guido  was  so  amazed  at  the  inadequacy  of  this  motive 
for  so  momentous  an  enterprise  as  suicide  that  he  said 
nothing. 

"It  was  very  unfortunate,"  said  Egon. 

"It  was  dreadful,"  said  Guido.  He  knew,  even  if  Lu- 
dolf's  brother  didn't,  what  Ludolf  had  suffered  before  he 
had  screwed  his  courage  to  the  suicide  point. 

"He  was  a  stupid  boy,"  Egon  continued.  "He  had  a  bad 
fall  when  he  was  a  small  baby.  He  never  would  have 
amounted  to  anything.  It  was  a  good  thing  that  his  sense 
of  honor  was  keen  enough  to  make  him  do  away  with  him 
self." 

"Oh!"  Guido  ejaculated:    he  was  too  shocked  for  words. 

"My  father  was  very  proud  of  him  after  he  had  killed 
himself,"  Egon  continued.  "When  people  of  our  class 
come  a  cropper,  as  the  English  say,  well,  there's  nothing 
left  to  do  but  to  end  it  all." 

Guido  was  reduced  to  utter  speechlessness.  He  con 
ceived  the  boy  at  his  side  to  be  a  sort  of  monster.  But  the 
disconcerting  son  of  one  of  Prussia's  noblest  houses  upset 
this  latest  of  Guide's  latest  conclusions  with  his  next  sen 
tence. 

"I  was  very  fond  of  him,"  said  the  young  Stoic — or  was 
he  merely  a  Spartan? — "I  miss  him  very  much.  I  miss 
him  at  night.  We  slept  together.  He  was  not  a  clever  boy 
but  he  was  kind.  He  was  always  trying  to  give  our  mother 
some  pleasure.  Now  I — I'm  clever,  but  I'm  not  kind.  If 
I  allowed  myself  to  be  kind  I'd  turn  to — breakfast  food." 

He  laughed,  uneasily.  From  the  sound  of  his  voice 
Guido  knew  that  Egon's  throat  was  rigid. 


>20o  THE  HYPHEN 

"Sometimes,  when  I  don't  look  out,  I  turn  weak,"  Egon 
continued,  "and  then  I  wish  the  honor  of  the  von  Dammers 
hadn't  required  little  Ludolf's  death.  He  was  such  a  win 
some  little  chap." 

He  gulped  hard.  Guido,  with  an  awkward  gesture, 
placed  his  hand  on  Egon's  arm.  Instantly  Egon's  face  and 
form  stiffened. 

"How  old  was  your  brother  when  he  began  to  study 
Latin?"  Guido  asked. 

"He  began  to  study  Latin  at  six  and  Greek  at  eight," 
Egon  replied.  "I  began  a  year  younger,  because  I  was 
brighter.  Here — in  this  country — "  the  old  scorn  was  ram 
pant  again  in  his  voice,  "they  teach  you  Latin  when  you're 
twelve,  or  not  at  all.  Ridiculous.  The  educational  system 
of  Germany  is  so  much  better  than  the  American." 

"In  what  way?"  Guido  demanded.  He  could  not  help 
but  be  impressed  by  the  general  superiority  which  Egon  ex 
uded. 

"Oh,  the  discipline  is  better.  Do  you  think  I  would  have 
dared  to  answer  a  German  teacher  in  class  the  way  I  an 
swered  Miss  Dawson  this  morning?  But  then,  no  German 
Jeacher  would  have  made  the  break  she  did." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Guido,  "that  you  are  just  as  fresh 
to  Mr.  Helsingrath  and  Mr.  Toenner  as  you  are  to  the 
American  teachers." 

Egon  laughed  contemptuously. 

"Those  two  pills,"  he  said.  "Why,  we  wouldn't  tol 
erate  them  as  teachers  of  the  lowest  Dorfschule  in  Ger 
many.  Boys  of  our  class  and  station  wouldn't  put  up  with 
them  as  valets  or  footmen.  Ever  see  Helsingrath  eat  ?  He 
sucks  his  soup — schluerft  seine  Suppe — and  he  eats  all 
his  solid  food  with  his  knife.  I  wonder  he  doesn't  turn  the 
spoon  around  when  he  eats  his  pudding.  As  to  Toenner, 
why,  that  boob,  if  you  showed  him  a  tooth-brush,  he 
wouldn't  know  what  it  was  for." 

Guido  caught  his  breath.  Some  instinct  checked  his  de 
sire  to  quarrel  outright.  He  wanted  to  hear  all  this  boy  had 
to  say.  But  the  bell  which  ended  the  recess  rang  just  then 
and  terminated  their  conversation. 

Guido  usually  knew  his  own  mind  as  well  as  any  other 
normal  boy,  but  for  a  long  time  he  gravitated  between  like 
and  dislike  for  Egon  von  Dammer,  or  more  accurately,  he 


CHILDHOOD  201 

was  unable  to  break  up  into  its  primary  ingredients  the 
emotional  compound  which  held  both  admiration  and  dis 
like  in  solution.  One  of  the  two  feelings  must  outweigh 
the  other.  At  first  he  could  not  tell  which  was  the  stronger. 
Admiration  won  out.  Egon's  mind,  like  Guide's,  was  keenly 
alert.  Like  Guido,  also,  he  was  an  omnivorous  reader,  and 
the  two  boys,  acting  as  guide  one  for  the  other,  amplified 
and  complemented  their  respective  scopes.  Moreover,  Egon 
at  first  had  shown  his  worst  traits.  When  he  placed  a 
quietus  upon  his  superciliousness,  as  he  invariably  did  when 
alone  with  Guido,  a  more  charming  companion  could  not 
be  imagined. 

Guido  had  been  placed  upon  a  bench  intended  for  two 
boys,  but  the  other  seat  was  unoccupied  during  the  first 
week  of  Guide's  incumbency.  Various  battered  articles 
which  lay  in  the  trough  under  the  desk  when  Guido  took 
possession,  led  him  to  observe  that  he  was  not  the  sole 
tenant. 

He  questioned  Otto. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Otto,  "Stan  Finlay  sits  there  with  you, 
of  course." 

The  American  name  made  Guido  prick  up  his  ears. 
Egon,  with  his  distinctly  foreign  personality,  had  been  a 
great  find.  "Stan  Finley,"  promising  to  present  a  pure 
specimen  of  the  American  type,  sounded  just  as  fascinat 
ing  to  our  young  hybrid  as  Egon's  magic  ensemble. 

"Is  Stan  Finley  sick?"  he  asked. 

"Nope.  Father  and  mother  went  on  a  trip  to  Niagara 
Falls  and  took  him  along.  He'll  be  back  next  week." 

"What  does  'Stan'  stand  for?" 

"Standish." 

"But  that's  a  last  name.'" 

"Yes,  of  course.  Crazy  American  way  of  giving  last 
names  as  first  names." 

Guido  did  not  think  the  custom  "crazy"  at  all.  He 
thought  it  charming.  He  was  wild  to  make  the  acquaint 
ance  of  Standish  Finlay.  Bob  Hastings  had  been  filched 
away  from  his  ken  by  a  jealous  and  pilfering  fate,  and  he 
dreaded  to  think  what  accidents  might  befall  Stan  before 
he  got  back  to  Anasquoit.  The  train  might  be  derailed,  or 
there  might  be  a  collision,  or  he  might  slide  down  over  the 


202  THE  HYPHEN 

Falls.     Guido  was  very  selfishly  concerned  all  that  week 
about  Standish  Finlay's  safety. 

Monday  came  and  the  wanderer  returned  safely  to  the 
fold. 

Stan  was  a  remarkably  handsome  boy,  tall,  lithe,  active, 
with  features  almost  classically  perfect.  He  was  the  type 
of  boy  that  is  father  to  the  Gibson  man.  He  was  very  well 
dressed  in  a  leisurely,  off-hand,  careless  sort  of  way  which 
contrasted  sharply  with  the  painstaking  neatness  of  Egon's 
and  Guide's  attire.  Ever  since  his  tenth  year  he  had  been 
permitted  to  select  his  own  clothes,  his  father  believing  that 
a  child's  individuality  should  be  fostered  and  not  sup 
pressed,  and  his  manner  of  dressing  accurately  mirrored  his 
character.  He  secerned  incapable  of  making  an  effort  that 
seemed  like  an  effort.  He  was  continually  going  off  jun 
keting  with  his  parents,  yet  he  acquitted  himself  admirably 
at  the  examinations,  and  his  reports  always  came  off  with 
flying  colors.  Only  his  imperfect  knowledge  of  German 
kept  him  from  outstripping  Otto  and  Egon  and — now  that 
he  had  returned  to  school — Guido  as  well. 

He  came  in  late  during  the  morning  session.  Guido  re 
garded  him  curiously,  and  was  curiously  regarded  in  turn. 
Recess  was  almost  over  when  Stan,  having  escaped  from 
half  a  dozen  boys  who  had  literally  engulfed  him,  made  up 
to  Guido. 

"Say,"  he  said,  in  his  off-hand,  careless  way,  "you're  the 
kid  with  the  sore  spine,  aren't  you?" 

Guido  blushed.  This  was  not  the  first  indication  that 
his  "sore  spine"  had  become  one  of  the  traditions  of  the 
school.  But  there  was  not  the  least  cause  for  offense. 
Stan  had  labeled  him  for  identification,  not  to  poke  fun 
at  him. 

"Yep,"  said  Guido. 

"Awfully  glad  you're  better.  I  thought  of  you  often. 
Would  have  come  in  to  see  you  with  Otto  some  time,  but 
my  Ma  said  your  Ma  mightn't  like  it.  Beastly  shame  to 
have  been  laid  up  for  years." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  really  mind,"  said  Guido,  a  little  vainglor- 
iously,  and  feeling  wonderfully  heroic. 

"Why  didn't  you  mind?"  Stan  inquired,  curiously. 
'Should  I  have  minded?"  Guido  flung  back. 


CHILDHOOD  203 

"You're  a  regular  Yankee,  aren't  you,"  he  said.  "An 
swer  a  question  with  a  question." 

Stan  laughed. 

"Usually,"  said  Guido,  "I'm  called  a  German-American." 

"That's  rank  nonsence,"  said  Stan,  with  decision.  "My 
father  says  there  is  no  such  animal  as  a  German-Ameri 
can." 

Here  Guido  made  mental  note  of  the  fact  that  American 
boys  have  the  habit  of  quoting  their  fathers  just  as  Otto 
did. 

"Well,  what  do  you  call  us  who  have  German  parents?" 

"Just  plain  Americans,  like  myself.  The  only  genuine 
American  is  the  American  Indian.  Father  says  if  we're  all 
going  to  claim  attention  for  the  country  we  originally 
hailed  from — Germany,  England,  France,  Italy,  Spain — by 
sticking  the  name  of  a  foreign  country  in  front  of  the 
'American,'  we'll  be  a  sorry  lot  of  natives  and  not  fit  to 
live  on  American  soil.  That's  what  my  dad  says.  And 
my  dad  is  pretty  nearly  always  right.  Dad's  great." 

Guido  wished  he  might  have  said  the  same. 

He  saw  he  was  going  to  like  Stan  Finlay  immensely.  No 
complicated  chemical  retort  was  required  to  decide  that  for 
him.  With  his  usual  impulsiveness  he  felt  impelled  to 
speak  his  mind,  though  obliquely. 

"I'm  awf'lly  glad  I'm  in  the  same  seat  with  you,"  he 
said. 

Stan  looked  surprised.    He  seemed  taken  aback. 

"Are  you  though?"  he  asked,  his  voice  less  hearty  than 
before. 

"Yes,"  Guido  continued,  bravely.  "You  see,  I've  known 
no  real  American  boys  until  now — only  German-Ameri 
cans — like  myself." 

"There  you  go  again,"  said  Stan,  laughing,  and  hearty 
again.  "You're  a  queer  kid,  you  are.  I  can  tell  you,  though, 
I'm  real  glad  you  turned  up.  Otto's  all  right,  and  Eddie 
Erdman  is  all  right,  too,  but  the  rest  of  this  class — well, 
they're  a  junk  lot  of  kids,  look  as  if  they  did  mother's 
chores  before  breakfast  and  forgot  to  tidy  up  ever  after. 
Gee,  there's  the  bell." 

Guido  and  Stan  became  fast  friends.  The  Finlays  were 
well-to-do  people  and  Standish  was  an  only  child.  They 
lived  in  a  four  story  brownstone  house  on  Bismarck  near 


204  THE  HYPHEN 

Juniper  street  which  was  furnished  throughout  in  old 
Colonial  style.  In  the  bedrooms  rag  carpets  lay  upon  the 
parquetry  floors,  and  prints  showing  Colonial  interiors  and 
exteriors  hung  upon  the  walls.  The  dining-room  furniture 
was  genuine  Sheraton,  which  had  been  handed  down  from 
generation  to  generation  in  the  family  of  Stan's  mother, 
and  Guido  was  hugely  amused  by  the  tremendous  fork  and 
knife  urns,  strongly  resembling  mortuary  urns,  which  orna 
mented  the  enormous  sideboard.  Guido  had  never  seen 
anything  like  it  before.  Nor  had  he  seen  anything  like  the 
collapsible  card  tables  of  mahogany  inlaid  with  borders  of 
satin-wood,  which  were  arranged  against  the  walls  of  the 
parlor;  nor  like  the  wonderful  Heppelwhite  chairs,  also 
genuine,  which  seemed  much  too  frail  for  use ;  nor  like  the 
enormous  wing-chair  in  which  Stan's  grandmother  sat  and 
knitted;  nor  like  the  old  broken- voiced  spinet,  nor  like  the 
four-yard-long  divan  with  arms  like  lyres;  nor  like  the 
library  table  with  ball  and  claw  feet ;  nor  like  the  long  mir 
ror  which  peeped  out  from  between  fluted  columns  of  gilt 
in  the  hall. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  visited  a  "real"  Ameri 
can  home,  and  he  felt  that  at  last  he  was  treading  the 
simon-pure  soil  of  America. 

Before  a  week  had  gone  by  the  two  boys  had  visited  each 
other.  A  glamour  and  enchantment  accrued  to  Stan  for 
Guido  which  was  never  eclipsed.  He  loved  the  clear,  pene 
trating  Anglo-Saxon  voice,  the  pure  profile,  the  mass  of 
waving,  dark-brown  hair.  He  loved,  most  of  all  the  scant, 
close-clipped  Anglo-Saxon  words  which  Stan  used.  They 
appealed  to  him  like  a  neatly  trimmed  box  of  hedge. 

In  his  eyes  Stan  was  quite  perfect.  He  should  have  liked 
to  be  just  like  him. 

June  came,  bringing  examinations  which  frightened 
everybody,  even  the  teachers,  and  a  school-picnic  which 
was  supposed  to  be  a  fountain  of  pure  joy. 

Poor  Guido !  The  weeks  that  preceded  that  first  school- 
picnic  of  his  were  destined  to  harrow  him  cruelly.  There 
were  various  reasons  for  this.  The  chief  reason  was  that 
Guido  had  discovered  the  girls,  or  rather,  to  speak  truth, 
the  girls  had  discovered  him.  There  had  been  thrust  upon 
him  suddenly  the  preposterous  fact  of  sex.  It  happened 
in  this  way. 


CHILDHOOD  205 

One  day,  on  entering  the  class-room,  he  heard  the  Rhino 
exclaim : 

"Here  comes  the  lady-killer." 

"What  d'ye  mean,  Fatty?"  Guido  inquired,  innocently. 

"What  do  I  mean?    Ask  Otto." 

Guido  looked  questioningly  at  Otto  who,  disgruntled  for 
reasons  of  his  own,  looked  away  without  replying. 

"Dear  me,  dear  me,"  the  Rhino  wailed,  "how  attractive 
we  are.  What  pretty,  black  eyes  we  have.  What  lovely, 
lovely  black  hair  we  have.  What  nice,  nice  hands  we  have. 
And  they  are  always  clean.  And  our  pretty,  pretty  hair 
is  always  well  combed  and  brushed.  And  our  pretty  little 
fingers  are  always  manicured.  And  how  the  pretty,  lovely, 
little  innocent  dears  love  us !" 

Guido  understood  at  last.  He  turned  purple,  first  with 
embarrassment,  then  with  rage. 

"Steady,  boy,"  whispered  Stan.  He  gripped  Guide's 
coat  firmly  and  pulled  Guido  down  into  his  seat.  "Keep 
your  temper,"  he  whispered.  "Don't  make  a  fool  of  your 
self,  now,  will  you?  Look  at  the  girls." 

Thus  admonished,  Guido  looked  across  to  the  girl's  aisle. 
Some  were  giggling,  some  were  indignant,  some  were  un 
comfortable,  some  were  brazening  it  out. 

"Tell  you  after  school,"  whispered  Stan. 

For  the  past  fortnight,  it  seems,  some  of  the  little  girls 
had  been  speculating  as  to  the  object  of  Guido's  affection, 
for  with  juvenile  sophistication  it  seemed  incredible  to 
these  little  ladies  that  Guido  was  as  different  to  the  at 
tractions  of  their  sex  as  he  seemed.  He  never  spoke  to 
a  girl.  He  sharpened  no  pencils  for  any  youthful  charmer; 
presented  no  one  with  penny  candies  or  bananas.  He  stole 
neither  hair  ribbon  nor  kisses.  The  latter  omissions,  par 
ticularly  the  last,  constituted  the  offense  hardest  to  con 
done.  Erna  Friedman  and  Lieschen  Schlick,  the  two  most 
aggressive  of  these  youthful  daughters  of  Eve,  decided 
that  such  indifference  and  impartiality  must  be  punished. 
They  determined,  when  occasion  offered,  to  hazard  the 
bestowal  of  a  kiss  upon  this  coy  Joseph.  They  had  an  idea 
that  they  might  entrap  him  into  one  of  the  kissing  games 
which  were  countenanced  by  the  parents  of  some  of  the 
children  at  birthday  parties. 

One  of  the  boys,  kept  in  during  recess,  overheard  the 


206  THE  HYPHEN 

conspiracy  which  was  hatching  in  the  courtyard  directly 
below  the  window  at  which  he  sat.  The  news  spread  like 
wildfire  through  the  class.  The  children  were  ungovern 
able  during  the  session  that  followed.  Bad  marks  for  im 
proper  deportment  rained  hard  and  fast  without  any  cor 
rective  effect.  The  whispering,  the  giggling,  the  explosions 
of  uncontrollable  laughter  continued.  The  entire  class,  as 
a  result,  was  kept  in. 

Guido  had  been  absent  from  school  on  the  afternoon 
when  all  this  happened.  When  he  appeared  the  next  morn 
ing,  Fatty  Erdman — the  Rhino — gibed  at  him  with  the 
result  above  outlined. 

From  that  day  on  Guido  lived  in  constant  terror  that 
he  might  be  kissed.  He  feared,  not  without  reason,  that 
the  school  picnic  would  be  the  occasion  upon  which  the 
plot  which  centered  about  him  might  be  consummated.  He 
fought  desperately  against  going.  His  mother  insisted.  He 
was  ashamed  to  take  her  into  his  confidence.  At  last  he 
yielded  to  her  wishes  because  there  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

Guide's  last  remnant  of  hope  was  torn  to  tatters  when, 
instead  of  raining,  as  conceivably  it  might  have  done,  the 
morning  of  the  picnic  dawned  bright  and  cool  and  clear — 
no  prospects  even  of  a  shower  which  might  have  sent  him 
home  before  the  blighting  hand  of  love's  game  could  be 
laid  upon  him. 

All  morning,  and  at  luncheon — set  in  a  rectangular 
pavilion  at  tables  so  long  that  the  features  of  the  children 
at  the  extreme  end  were  indistinguishable — all  went  merry 
as  a  wedding  bell.  The  little  girls,  in  white  dresses  and 
pink  and  blue  ribbons,  looked  charming,  and  behaved  them 
selves  like  little  ladies.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that  those 
airy  little  creatures  might  be  harboring  sinister  designs 
against  any  one  in  their  dainty  little  heads.  Guido  was  a 
gallant  little  lad.  He  decided  suddenly,  with  simon-pure 
masculine  logic,  that  such  a  suspicion  was  as  insulting  as 
it  was  absurd.  He  began  to  breathe  freely,  and  set  about 
to  enjoy  the  afternoon  with  Stan  and  Otto  and  Egon. 

They  were  on  their  way  to  the  lake  shortly  after  dinner 
— Stan  was  excellent  at  the  oars — when  their  way  was 
suddenly  barred  by  a  bevy  of  little  girls.  There  were  Erna 
Friedman  and  Lieschen  Schlick,  always  the  ring-leaders 
in  all  mischief,  and  half  a  dozen  others,  laughter  in  their 


CHILDHOOD  207 

eyes  and  scorn  on  their  lips.  There  also,  a  little  apart, 
stood  dear  little  Elschen  Marlow. 

Elschen  had  not  been  able  to  carry  out  her  intention  of 
presenting  Guido  with  a  large  bouquet  of  flowers  from 
her  garden,  because  he  had,  after  all,  become  well  so  sud 
denly,  and  she  had  given  no  sign  of  her  admiration  for 
him  now  that  he  was  well  and  strong.  She  was  the  only 
little  girl  in  the  class  upon  whom  Guido's  eyes  occasion 
ally  lingered.  He  thought  that  he  would  have  liked  to 
have  a  little  sister  like  her.  She  seemed  so  sweet  and 
bright  and  clean,  like  the  blue  sky  or  violets  or  the  silver 
waters  of  a  brook.  Frau  Ursula,  of  course,  had  not  told 
Guido  of  the  conversation  that  had  taken  place  between 
herself  and  Elschen,  and  Elschen,  therefore,  was  to  Guido 
nothing  more  than  a  name. 

The  precise,  dainty  little  creature  looked  very  charming 
this  June  day  in  a  little  smock  of  dimity,  much  more 
elaborately  and  modishly  trimmed  than  the  dresses  she 
usually  wore.  The  warm  weather  had  whitened  and 
smoothed  her  arms  and  her  short  sleeves  were  festooned 
with  tiny  rosettes  made  of  pink  and  light  blue  silk  which 
gave  her  a  festive  appearance.  She  looked  very  dear  and 
sweet. 

Erna  Friedman  stepped  forward.  When  she  spoke  she 
addressed  Guido  pointedly. 

"There  is  going  to  be  dancing,"  she  said,  "will  you 
come  ?" 

She  spoke  German,  as  usual.  She  spent  her  summer 
vacations  in  Germany,  with  her  grandparents,  on  a  "Gut," 
and  she  spoke  English  only  when  it  became  unavoidable 
that  she  should  do  so.  Then,  when  unavoidable,  she  treated 
the  language  of  Great  Britain  and  the  United  States  as  if 
it  were  a  huge  joke,  purposely  misspeaking  and  using  in 
correct  grammar  and  preposterous  idioms. 

"Thanks,  no,"  said  Guido.     "We're  going  boating." 

"Better  come,"  Lieschen  put  in,  boldly.  "There  are  going 
to  be  games,  too.  And  the  forfeits  will  be  kisses." 

Now  this  was  a  palpable  untruth.  Guido  knew,  and 
Egon,  Otto  and  Stan  knew,  and  so  did  all  the  girls,  that 
the  Herr  Direktor  was  violently  opposed  to  kissing  games 
of  every  description  and  would  not  allow  any  games  of  the 
sort  to  be  played  in  the  pavilion. 


208  THE  HYPHEN 

Guido  did  not  reply  at  once,  and  Erna  and  Lieschen  re 
garded  him  with  sly,  heckling  looks.  Suddenly  something 
stirred  in  Guido.  A  strange  change  came  over  him.  He 
had  feared  the  moment  when  the  little  vixens  would  begin 
to  torment  him  more  than  he  had  ever  feared  anything 
in  all  his  life.  More  even,  than  he  had  feared  death. 
Much  more.  He  had  feared  it  with  the  hot,  uncomfortable, 
prickling  fear  with  which  human-kind  fears  being  made 
ridiculous.  But  now  that  he  was  actually  spread-eagled 
for  the  barbecue,  his  fear  left  him.  He  felt  heroic,  ad 
venturesome,  aggressive. 

"I'm  afraid,"  he  said  with  deadly  composure,  "that  you 
girls  are  going  to  be  disappointed  if  you  expect  kisses  from 
me  or  the  other  fellers.  The  Herr  Direktor  won't  stand 
for  it,  you  know." 

"It's  not  we  girls  who'll  be  disappointed,  Guido,"  said 
Erna  Friedman,  smiling  coquettishly. 

"You're  a  very  rude  little  boy  to  say  something  like  that," 
said  little  Elschen  Marlow  in  her  intent,  old-fashioned  way 
and  with  a  heat  which  showed  that  her  hero  was  in  danger 
of  toppling  from  his  pedestal. 

As  Guido  looked  at  her  his  face  softened. 

"You  must  not  call  me  rude,  Elschen,"  he  said,  gently. 

"But  you  are  rude!"  the  child  stamped  her  foot  indig 
nantly.  "It's  horrid  of  you  to  pretend  that  the  girls  want 
to  kiss  you."  The  child  spoke  in  good  faith  and  young 
as  the  boys  were  they  understood  this  thoroughly. 

Guido  laughed.  Indignation  became  the  golden-haired, 
blue-eyed  child.  She  was  as  modest  in  her  demeanor  with 
boys  as  he  was  shy  with  girls.  And  she  was  the  only  one 
of  the  group  of  little  girls  about  whom  there  was  nothing 
brazen.  She  was  Eve  before  the  Fall.  The  others  presented 
a  composite  picture  of  the  first  mother  after  the  catas 
trophe.  She  was  Eve  defensive,  they  were  examples  of 
Eve  aggressive,  coquettish,  wantonly  seductive. 

"You  know,  Guido,"  bold-mouthed  Erna  Friedman 
said,  "you  are  not  a  bit  like  other  boys.  Other  boys  aren't 
affraid  to  kiss  the  girls."  She  was  a  pretty  girl,  very  pretty 
with  self-conscious  and  bold  but  not  coarse  beauty.  The 
well-developed  physique,  the  expressive  mouth,  the  poise 
and  carriage  of  her  comely  head  foreshadowed  maturity. 

"Oh !    I'm  afraid  to  kiss  the  girls,  am  I  ?"  Guido  laughed 


CHILDHOOD  209 

outright.  The  situation  was  really  droll.  He  felt  a  de 
lightful  sensation  of  superiority,  a  new  sort  of  superiority 
which  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  scepter  of  Polysyllabic 
King.  The  sense  of  easy  mastery  which  was  its  con 
comitant  was  exquisite,  delicious.  These  girls,  silly,  berib- 
bonned,  beruffled  things,  thought  they  were  playing  with 
him.  Wondrous  delusion  1  It  was  almost  a  pity  to  shatter 
it.  Yet,  since  it  was  a  matter  of  choice  between  the 
pleasure  which  the  shattering  would  involve  for  himself,  or 
the  joy  which  the  maintenance  would  afford  them — there 
was  no  more  to  be  said.  He  was  as  unaltruistic  as  a 
Katydid  which  swallows  a  fly,  and  as  impartial  regarding 
the  choice  of  his  victim. 

While  he  stood  there  smiling  happily — sheepishly  as  they 
thought — he  was  coldly  calculating  whether  it  would  be 
easier  to  catch  Erna  or  Lieschen.  He  was  not  a  very 
quick  runner,  and  he  hated  to  run  right  after  eating,  any 
how.  But  apparently  the  thing  had  to  be  done. 

Erna,  he  ruminated,  was  swifter  of  foot  than  Lieschen, 
but  became  winded  more  quickly.  He  decided  that  strategy 
might  stand  him  in  better  stead  with  Erna  than  with 
Lieschen.  He  decided  to  scotch  Erna.  Just  then  his  eyes 
happened  to  alight  on  short-sleeved  Elschen  Marlow — 
Elschen  of  the  sky-blue  eyes  and  moonlight  hair. 

Who  shall  say  at  what  age  that  compound  fracture  of 
the  human  organism  which  involves  heart,  soul,  senses — 
all,  in  brief,  that  the  poor  human  calls  his  own — and  which 
we  euphemistically  call  love,  begins.  As  easy  to  fix  the 
precise  historical  date  when  the  first  tadpole  changed  into 
a  fish,  or  the  first  fish  became  an  amphibian,  or  the  first 
amphibian  evolved  itself  into  the  intermediate  link  from 
which  the  lord  and  flower  of  creation  is  derived. 

Certain  it  is  that  our  hero's  sense  of  strategic  niceties 
was  wiped  away  more  quickly  than  words  can  tell  as  he 
gazed  upon  Elschen's  sparkling  blue  eyes,  and  her  golden 
hair  and  her  soft,  dimpled  arms.  Since  he  must  kiss,  he 
would  kiss  Elschen,  and  no  one  else. 

"I'll  show  you  whether  I'm  afraid  to  kiss  the  girls,"  he 
cried,  suddenly  resolute.  "I  can't  very  well  kiss  all  of 
you — but  I'm  going  to  kiss  one  of  you — I'm  going  to  kiss 
Elschen  Marlow." 

Erna  and  Lieschen  stared,  incredulous,  chagrined,  morti- 


210  THE  HYPHEN 

fied.  Elschen  stared,  bewildered,  frightened,  not  compre 
hending.  Her  blue  eyes  dilated.  Her  intent  little  face, 
red  with  indignation  a  minute  ago,  became  quite  pale  with 
a  much  subtler  emotion. 

"But  I  don't  want  you  to  kiss  me,"  the  child  cried, 
stamping  her  foot. 

"I  know  you  don't,  and  that's  why  I  am  going  to  do  it," 
Guido  cried,  and  sportsmanship,  or  kindness,  or  some  more 
secret  stirring  of  the  soul,  prompted  him  to  add: 

"I'm  going  to  give  you  a  chance  to  run  away." 

The  little  girl  was  paralyzed  with  bewilderment  and 
Guido  made  another  remarkable  discovery.  He  did  not 
wish  her  to  be  too  easy  a  prey.  He  wanted  her  to  run 
and  to  run  hard.  He  didn't  want  to  kiss  her  here  in  the 
presence  of  all  those  gaping  girls  and  boys. 

"One — two — three!"  he  sang  out,  with  generous  inter 
vals  between  counts. 

Elschen  suddenly  became  galvanized  into  life,  into  un 
believably  active,  rapid  life.  Guido,  although  greater  height 
gave  him  the  advantage  of  slightly  longer  legs,  was,  because 
of  his  inability  to  run  very  fast,  left  behind  her  at  a 
quickly  widening  distance. 

The  girls  laughed.  The  boys  scowled.  They  were  furi 
ous  with  Guido  for  not  executing  sentence  on  the  spot — 
for  so  manifestly  allowing  Elschen  to  escape. 

Too  quick  a  start  makes  for  bad  momentum.  After 
they  had  left  the  beaten  track  and  penetrated  into  the 
spacious  lap  of  a  narrow-lipped  snow  and  sun-dappled 
daisy  field,  Elschen's  pace  slackened  perceptibly.  Sud 
denly  she  began  to  lag.  Guido,  who  had  been  running 
slowly,  saw  that  he  would  overtake  her  in  another  minute. 

They  were  now  out  of  sight  of  the  others.  No  merry 
makers  disturbed  the  lazy  contentment  of  the  scene.  Guido 
followed  at  his  slow,  ambling  run.  The  little  girl  stumbled 
over  a  tree  stump,  hidden  from  view  by  the  daisies  which 
waved  around  it,  and  fell.  Guido  reached  her  and  helped 
her  to  her  feet  and  brushed  her  pretty  dress  for  her  and 
assured  her  it  was  not  torn.  Only  then  he  looked  at  the 
hot,  flushed  little  face  so  bewitchingly  near  his  own,  and 
allowed  his  smile  to  proclaim  his  victory.  Little  Elschen 
looked  so  frightened  and  so  hot  and  uncomfortable  that 
Guido  was  almost  tempted  to  forego  the  spoils  of  the 


CHILDHOOD  211 

victor.  The  others  would  never  know  whether  he  had 
kissed  her  or  not.  And  he  was  really  sorry  for  Elschen. 
The  June  day,  sweet  and  balmy  though  it  was  in  the  shade, 
had  mounted  a  ruthless  sun.  He  decided  to  let  her  go — 
unkissed. 

Then  a  curious  thing  happened.  Wisdom  beyond  his 
years  came  to  him.  Her  eyes  were  shining  with  the  emo 
tion  of  fear,  it  is  true,  but  Guido  perceived  with  the  nicest 
lucidity  that  if  she  was  afraid  that  he  might  kiss  her,  she 
was  much  more  afraid  that  he  might  not.  Mixed  emo 
tions  of  the  feminine  heart!  Tangled  wires  of  the  human 
soul !  He  had  glimpsed  the  Gordian  knot  before,  but  this 
was  a  new,  more  fascinating,  more  tantalizing  version. 

He  cut  it  neatly  by  planting  a  kiss  as  delicate  as  a 
moonbeam  and  no  more  substantial  than  a  spider's  web 
upon  the  flushed  cheek  of  the  little  maid. 

The  fright  died  out  of  the  starry  blue  eyes.  The  heav 
ing  of  her  bosom  subsided.  Her  plump  little  hands  un 
clenched  themselves.  She  was  her  dignified,  controlled, 
intent  little  self  once  more,  but  her  primness  had  changed 
its  complexion.  It  had  been  sweetened,  and  it  was  he  who 
had  sweetened  it! 

Divine  moment!  Self-evidently  the  novelty  of  a  first 
experience  can  never  be  enjoyed  twice.  The  memory  of 
Elschen's  cheek,  soft  and  velvety  as  the  impalpable  down  of 
a  chick,  was  destined  to  linger  in  his  memory.  He  thought 
of  it  at  the  most  improbable  and  unexpected  moments. 
After  hours  of  hard  and  concentrated  study,  or  barely  less 
laborious  play,  in  a  jasmine-scented  dusk  or  at  daybreak 
sweet  with  the  call  of  the  robin  or  the  song  of  the  thrush, 
the  memory  of  Elschen's  soft  little  cheek  would  suddenly 
flash  upon  him  and  fill  him  with  a  haunting,  teasing  unrest. 

The  severed  Gordian  knot  has  an  unfair  habit  of  putting 
itself  together  again,  and  borrowing  Hydra's  power,  multi 
plying  its  snarls  and  tangles  a  hundredfold. 

"I  say,  Guido,"  said  Otto,  as  they  were  walking  home 
from  school  on  all  but  the  last  day,  "isn't  it  great  that 
you're  all  right  now?" 

"Yes,"  said  Guido,  indifferently.  Already  his  long  illness 
seemed  remote,  improbable,  hazy.  The  keen,  vigorous, 
healthy  every-day  life  which  lapped  him  around  had  forced 


212  THE  HYPHEN 

the  abnormal,  unwholesome  life  which  he  had  led  for  two 
years  to  recede  into  the  background  of  his  thoughts. 

"I  never  told  you,"  Otto  continued,  "but  I  used  to  lie 
awake  nights,  just  thinking  about  you  and  your  sore  back. 
Once  I  got  to  crying  so  hard  I  woke  my  farder." 

Guido  received  this  in  stolid  silence.  It  was  not  that 
he  was  not  moved.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  deeply  touched. 
Besides,  Otto's  words  had  made  vivid  and  distinct  the  recol 
lections  which  had  seemed  so  dim  and  so  distant  only  a 
minute  before. 

For  a  moment  he  could  not  speak.  He  wanted  to  tell 
Otto  that  he  was  an  awfully  good  sort,  but  his  voice 
wouldn't  come.  But  Otto  did  not  take  his  friend's  silence 
amiss.  He  was  unaware  that  lying  awake  nights  and  cry 
ing  over  a  sick  friend  might  be  construed  as  a  doughty 
deed. 

Otto  was  playing  with  a  hard  rubber  ball,  which  he  threw 
up  into  the  air  and  then  caught  again  as  it  fell  back. 

Egon  von  Dammer  and  Stan  were  waiting  for  them  at 
the  next  corner.  Stan  did  not  like  Egon.  "You'll  find 
him  out  some  day,  you  mark  my  word,"  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  preaching  to  Guido.  He  avoided  Egon  whenever 
he  could.  Chancing  to  leave  the  class-room  together  with 
Egon  that  afternoon,  he  was  too  manly  "to  give  him  the 
slip,"  in  his  own  phrase.  But  he  looked  annoyed  and  dour, 
and  Guido  hurried  forward  and  paired  off  with  Egon. 

Stan  loitered  behind,  caught  Otto's  ball  as  it  descended 
and  pitched  it  back  to  him.  Thus  the  boys  walked  along 
the  street,  Guido  and  Egon  leading,  Stan  and  Otto  pitch 
ing  the  ball  to  and  fro  as  they  walked. 

To  hit  a  bird  on  the  wing  is  no  feat  at  all  compared  to 
catching  a  ball  traveling  at  high  speed  while  walking  back 
wards.  Unconsciously  both  boys  were  putting  more  and 
more  muscle  back  of  the  pitch.  Their  hands  ached  with 
the  impact  of  the  ball,  but  they  liked  the  hot  soreness  of 
their  palms.  It  relieved  the  mental  strain  of  the  day's 
work. 

Once  Otto  missed  his  catch.  He  lagged  behind,  found 
the  ball  and  without  waiting  to  estimate  the  lengthened 
trajectory — for  Stan  had  gone  right  on — pitched  the  ball 
at  Stan  full  force.  Stan  strained  every  muscle  to  catch 
the  ball,  but  the  ball  sped  on,  curved  downward,  narrowly 


CHILDHOOD  213 

missed  Stan's  hand  and  struck  Guido  a  resounding  blow 
in  the  back.  Guido,  without  a  sound,  dropped  his  books 
and  pitched  forward,  ashen-gray.  Egon  caught  him  or  he 
would  have  fallen  prone  to  the  ground. 

Otto's  dismay  exceeded  the  humanly  bearable.  What 
ever  Guide's  suffering  was  at  the  moment — and  it  was  great 
— it  was  as  nought  compared  to  the  naming  pit  of  misery 
which  had  opened  and  swallowed  Otto  earthquake-like  at 
one  hideous  gulp.  Big  boy  as  he  was,  he  began  crying 
aloud,  his  mouth  wide  open,  the  tears  streaming  down  his 
face  in  an  unbelievably  thick  curtain. 

"I've  hurt  Guido!  I've  hurt  him!"  he  screamed.  His 
words  were  barely  intelligible,  for  they  proceeded  from  the 
depth  of  a  panting  chest  past  a  rigid  throat  and  taut  vocal 
chords  and  out  through  a  gaping,  unenunciating  mouth. 

"Stop  bawling  for  God's  sake  and  help  me  home,"  said 
Guido,  between  clenched  teeth. 

But  Otto  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  touch  Guido. 
He  seemed  in  that  dreadful  moment  of  realization  to  have 
conceived  himself  as  a  human  sledge-hammer,  a  Caliban, 
a  contaminating  pariah. 

Guido  screwed  a  smile — a  ghastly  smile — into  his  face, 
drawn  from  some  unsuspected  reservoir  of  courage. 

"It's  not  as  bad  as  you  think,  Otto,"  he  said,  but  for 
heaven's  sake  stop  your  howling." 

But  poor  Otto  lacked  the  power  to  stop  the  strange 
noises  which  he  was  making.  He  was  demoralized  by  the 
catastrophe  which  he  had  brought  upon  his  friend. 

A  crowd  was  gathering.  From  the  four  corners  of  the 
earth  came  the  idlers,  the  curious,  the  sympathetic  and 
the  bored.  Blowsy  women,  their  attention  attracted  by 
Otto's  horrid  hubbub,  leaned  far  out  of  their  windows  to 
see  what  was  happening.  Some,  realizing  that  something 
surpassing  in  horror  the  ordinary  tragedies  of  childhood 
was  occurring,  began  shouting,  "Oh,  my  God,  Oh,  my 
God !"  thereby  adding  to  the  tumult.  Others,  realizing 
nothing  but  that  the  picture-book  of  life  was  presenting  a 
somewhat  unusual  pageant,  brought  cushions  for  the  win 
dow-sills,  and  leaned  their  bare,  work-coarsened  arms  upon 
them  to  enjoy  the  procession  in  comfort. 

Meanwhile  Egon  and  Stan,  with  Guido  leaning  heavily 
upon  them,  were  slowly  making  their  way  through  the 


2i4  THE  HYPHEN 

moving  frame  of  humanity  which  surrounded  them.  Guido 
could  hardly  move  his  legs,  much  less  would  his  legs  sup 
port  his  weight.  His  two  friends  almost  carried  him. 
But  all  the  while,  during  that  agonized  homeward  march, 
the  courageous  smile  which  he  had  stuck  upon  his  face, 
remained  upon  it.  Perhaps  he  lacked  the  strength  to  re 
move  it  and  throw  it  away.  It  was  like  a  yesterday's  rose 
— remaining  in  the  buttonhole  which  it  had  once  graced 
with  unwithered  loveliness. 

All  during  his  martyrdom  he  did  not  once  cry  out  or 
moan.  His  under-lip  bled — he  had  bitten  into  it  in  his 
desperate  need  for  an  outlet  of  his  agony — but  he  did  not 
cry  out.  But  when  Stan  and  Egon,  assisted  by  Otto,  whose 
cries  had  ceased  at  last,  had  gotten  Guido  safely  up  the 
stoop,  where  Frau  Ursula  stood,  summoned  by  some  other 
child,  with  terror  in  her  eyes,  he  fell  forward  into  his 
mother's  arms  in  a  dead  faint. 


CHAPTER  XI 

DR.  KOENIG  was  not  in  town,  a  circumstance  which 
caused  Frau  Ursula  to  reflect  that  it  never  rains  but 
it  pours.  With  considerable  misgivings  she  summoned  his 
understudy. 

Dr.  Erdman  was  a  brother  of  the  Rhino,  but  he  and 
Fatty  were  as  different  as  it  is  possible  for  two  human 
beings  to  be.  Dr.  Koenig's  assistant  was  tall  and  slender, 
and  very,  very  gentle.  His  gentleness  was  not  assumed. 
It  was  the  outward  token  of  an  unusually  tender  char 
acter.  The  man's  sweetness  and  charm  were  to  become 
proverbial  in  the  Anasquoit  of  his  generation. 

He  speedily  captivated  Frau  Ursula.  He  made  Guido 
comfortable  very  quickly.  He  smiled  cheerfully  yet  sym 
pathetically.  He  promised  to  find  a  nurse  that  would 
please.  His  manner  was  as  soothing  to  the  harassed 
woman  as  a  bread-and-milk  poultice. 

"How  badly  is  Guido  hurt?"  Frau  Ursula  demanded  of 
him  at  the  door. 

The  young  physician  became  very  grave. 

"I  cannot  say,"  he  said.    "It  may  be  a  matter  .of  weeks." 

"Weeks!" 

"No  longer  I  hope." 

Then  Frau  Ursula  understood  that  the  kind  voice  wished 
to  say  no  more  at  the  present. 

Within  an  hour  after  he  left  the  house  Mrs.  Thornton 
appeared  with  bag  and  baggage,  smiling  an  aggressively 
cheerful  smile.  She  announced  that  she  had  come  to  stay 
until  Guido  was  better.  A  miracle?  Ah,  no.  It  was  so 
simple.  Dr.  Erdman  had  been  house  surgeon  until  re 
cently  at  the  Anasquoit  Hospital.  He  was  a  prime  favorite 
with  everybody,  and  SO  sympathetic.  Frau  Ursula  had 
seen  that  for  herself.  And  he  had  only  to  say  the  word, 
and  presto !  the  management  fell  all  over  itself  to  oblige 
him. 

"But  how  did  he  know  about  you  and  us?"  Guido  de- 

215 


216  THE  HYPHEN 

manded,  a  loosely  constructed  sentence  whose  import  was 
entirely  intelligible  to  Mrs.  Thornton. 

"Oh,  I  happened  to  tell  him  all  about  your  case  one 
day,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton  lightly,  with  a  blush.  Later  in 
the  evening  she  admitted  that  "there  was  something  be 
tween  them."  Frau  Ursula  already  knew  that  her  married 
life  had  not  been  happy.  Her  little  lad,  her  only  ray  of 
hope  and  happiness,  had  died  three  months  after  she  had 
obtained  her  divorce.  Frau  Ursula  guessed  that  for  de 
cency's  sake  she  would  allow  a  year  to  elapse — her  husband 
had  died  a  month  after  the  divorce  had  gone  into  effect — 
and  that  Mrs.  Thornton  would  then  become  Mrs.  Erdman. 

This  last  fact  she  allowed  to  percolate  into  Guide's  mind 
during  the  evening.  He  wondered  a  little  at  the  unblushing 
hardihood  which  could  find  the  heart  to  change  the  name 
of  a  Signer  for  that  of  Erdman.  But  he  did  not  wonder 
long.  His  appetite  for  the  romantic  in  history  had  suffered 
a  retrogression.  His  introduction  to  the  romantic  in  love 
had  eclipsed  it.  He  thought  of  Elschen  and  kissed  Mrs. 
Thornton's  cheek  with  a  new  appreciation,  picturing  to 
himself  the  evaluation  which  slim,  handsome  Dr.  Erdman 
must  place  upon  it. 

Herr  Baumgarten  called  with  Otto  shortly  after  supper. 
Poor  Otto !  He  had  lain  sleepless  on  other  nights,  think 
ing  of  his  friend's  suffering,  while  innocent  of  that  suffer 
ing,  what  pangs  would  he  endure  now  with  conscience 
holding  a  somber  vigil  at  the  bedside,  whispering:  "But 
for  you  your  friend  would  be  well !" 

Otto's  face  was  swollen  and  red  from  weeping.  His 
father  said  he  had  cried  incessantly  since  returning  home. 
He  had  eaten  no  supper.  It  was  the  first  time  in  the 
memory  of  his  parents  that  he  the  lad  had  refused  food. 

"You  had  better  go  right  to  Guide's  room,  Otto,"  said 
Frau  Ursula,  kindly.  She  had  felt  inclined  to  blame  Otto 
earlier  in  the  day,  but  the  sight  of  those  inflamed  eyes 
with  their  beseeching  look  of  dumb  misery,  made  her  forget 
her  own  misery  in  his. 

"Will  he  see  me?"  Otto  inquired  from  a  dry  throat. 
"Doesn't  he  hate  me?  Liebe,  Hebe  Frau  Hauser,  I  would 
give  my  life  to  make  this  thing  undone.  Does  he  not  hate 
me?"  the  poor  wretch  demanded  again.  "If  he  hates  me 
I  shall  die.  But  what  good  will  that  do  him?" 


CHILDHOOD  217 

"He  does  not  hate  you,  Otto,"  Frau  Ursula  assured  the 
unhappy  boy.  "How  could  he?  His  best  friend.  And 
such  a  friend  as  you've  been."  Tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 
She  caressed  the  tousled  hair,  and  smoothed  it  back  from 
the  boy's  throbbing  temples  and  feverishly  hot  brow.  "It 
might  have  happened  to  any  of  the  other  boys  just  as 
well  as  to  you." 

"Why  didn't  it,  then?"  Otto  cried  wildly.  "Why  should 
it  have  happened  to  me?  To  ME?  Does  Egon  care  for 
him  as  I  do?  Does  Stan?  Does  Eddie?  You  know  they 
don't.  Why  should  my  hand  have  been  singled  out  to 
hurt  Guido?" 

Frau  Ursula  had  not  suspected  the  phlegmatic-seeming 
boy  of  such  emotion.  The  black  despair  and  self-loathing 
which  looked  from  his  eyes  frightened  her. 

"Otto,"  she  said,  speaking  sternly  to  check  his  hysteria, 
"if  you  talk  like  this  I  will  not  be  able  to  allow  you  to 
see  Guido.  And  he  wants  to  see  you  badly." 

"Does  he?  Does  he,  really?"  There  came  a  rift  in  the 
dark  cloud  of  his  misery.  At  a  sign  from  Frau  Ursula, 
he  rushed  wildly  out  of  the  room.  At  Guido's  door  he 
stopped,  overcome  by  a  dread  for  which  he  had  no  words. 
Thus  might  a  murderer  feel  in  approaching  sanctuary. 

Guido  had  heard  Otto's  footstep.  Even  grief  could  not 
moderate  the  heavy  thump-thump  with  which  Otto  lum 
bered  along. 

"Otto,  is  it  you?    At  last!    Come  in." 

Otto,  plucking  up  courage,  charged  the  door  and  stood 
at  the  threshold  trembling.  Then,  suddenly,  he  made  a  wild 
rush  for  Guido's  bedside,  and  dropping  upon  his  knees, 
began  to  cry  as  if  his  heart  were  breaking. 

Guido,  lying  flat  on  his  back  and  unable  to  stir,  allowed 
his  ringers  to  fumble  blindly  for  his  friend's  hair.  They 
encountered  an  ear  instead.  Guido's  hand  flattened  itself 
against  that  carressingly. 

"Don't  you  feel  so  bad,  Otto.    I  know  how  you  feel." 

"You  think  you  do  but  you  don't,"  sobbed  the  malefactor. 

"Well,  perhaps  I  don't.  I  can  tell  you,  though,  at  the 
present  moment  I'd  rather  be  myself  than  you — and  I'm 
not  overcomfortable." 

Sympathy  so  delicate  and  precious  could  not  fail  of  its 
effect.  Otto's  sobs  subsided. 


2i8  THE  HYPHEN 

"Oh,  Guido,"  breathed  Guide's  slave  abjectly,  "I  wouldn't 
have  done  it  for  worlds." 

Guido,  whose  sense  of  humor  could  not  be  impaired 
even  by  a  writhing  back,  smiled  at  the  childish  literality 
of  this  asseveration. 

"Wouldn't  you,  though,  Otto?"  he  said.  "Now  I  thought 
you  did  it  on  purpose  and  just  were  sorry  afterwards." 

"Oh,  Guido !"  Otto's  tear-stained,  horrified  face  lifted 
itself  from  the  snowy  counterpane  leaving  a  smudge  behind 
it.  "Oh,  Guido,  you  didn't  really  think  that?" 

Guido  laughed. 

"You  can  laugh!"  Otto  was  scandalized.  What  had 
laughter  to  do  in  the  midst  of  tragedy. 

"Why  not?  Do  you  intend  never  to  laugh  again?" 
Guido  teased. 

Otto  collapsed  upon  the  floor.  He  sat  staring  at  Guido 
and  saying  nothing. 

"Don't  you?"  Guido  urged. 

"I  don't  believe  I  shall,"  said  Otto. 

"Don't  be  a  chump,"  said  Guido.  "I  sha'n't  like  you  a 
bit  if  you're  going  to  be  as  solemn  as  a  funeral." 

This  threat  had  its  desired  effect. 

"I'll  do  anything  in  the  wide  world  to  please  you,  Guido," 
said  Otto,  with  a  new  meekness.  "Only  not  to-night.  To 
night  I  cannot  laugh." 

And  to  that  reservation  he  held.  The  age-old  instinct 
for  penance  had  awakened  in  him,  and  like  all  untried 
elemental  instincts  it  exacted  obedience. 

Mr.  Baumgarten,  after  his  Otto's  precipitate  flight  from 
the  room,  came  forward  out  of  the  corner  from  which  he 
had  watched  his  son's  abandonment  to  remorse. 

"You  are  more  than  kind,  verehrte  Frau,"  he  said.  "I 
came  here  expecting  to  find  justifiable  resentment.  I  find 
forgiveness,  humane  and  absolute." 

"It  would  be  signally  unfair  to  blame  a  child  for  such 
an  accident,"  Frau  Ursula  replied,  a  little  magniloquently. 
She  forgot  that  she  had  been  guilty  of  the  "signal  unfair 
ness"  until  there  had  been  thrust  upon  her  vision  Otto, 
with  his  desperate,  tear-smeared  visage. 

"How  badly  was  Guido  hurt?"  Mr.  Baumgarten 
pursued. 

"I  do  not  know.     Dr.  Erdman  would  not  commit  him- 


CHILDHOOD  219 

self.  I  imagine  we  may  have  the  specialist  over  in  a  day  or 
two.  We  will  decide  to-morrow." 

"Weeks  in  bed?" 

"I  think — I  am  afraid — months." 

"That  is  bad."  Mr.  Baumgarten  paused.  "Otto — you 
have  seen  for  yourself — is  disconsolate." 

"His  condition  alarms  me,"  said  Frau  Ursula.  "You 
will  have  to  be  kind  to  him,  Herr  Baumgarten,"  she  added, 
a  little  uncertainly.  She  thought  Mr.  Baumgarten  quite 
capable  of  flogging  Otto  into  the  bargain. 

"He  rejoices  me,"  said  Mr.  Baumgarten,  with  a  snap 
of  his  ominous  jaw.  "I  sometimes  feared  that  the  boy 
might  be  deficient  in  moral  responsibility.  I  find  he  has  a 
moral  sense,  after  all.  I  regret  that  your  boy  was  the 
unhappy  means  of  bringing  to  light  this  gratifying  dis 
covery." 

"Otto  is  a  very  fine  boy,  Mr.  Baumgarten,"  said  Frau 
Ursula,  with  a  curious  mixture  of  sincerity  and  insincerity. 
She  was  sincere  because  she  meant  what  she  said.  Her 
insincerity  consisted  in  the  fact  that  Otto's  fineness  had 
dawned  on  her  fully  four  hours  later  than  on  his  father, 
while  she  spoke  as  if  she  had  been  in  possession  of  this 
item  of  knowledge  for  years. 

"From  you,  verehrte  Frau,  that  is  a  compliment,  in 
deed.  But  he  is  not  as  fine  as  your  son." 

"Each  character  has  its  own  points,"  rejoined  Frau 
Ursula.  "Guido  had  his,  Otto  has  others." 

"I  should  really  like  to  know  what  good  qualities  my  boy 
possesses  that  yours  lacks,"  said  Mr.  Baumgarten.  He 
was  a  small,  squat  man,  with  a  heavy,  homely  face.  He 
always  spoke  a  little  didactically,  a  little  dictatorially.  He 
was  something  of  a  martinet  at  home.  It  was  difficult  for 
him,  when  away  from  home,  to  maintain  for  any  length 
of  time  the  deferential  attitude  toward  women  required 
by  social  usage.  He  believed  that  Frau  Ursula  had  spoken 
without  conviction,  and  as  he  abhorred  the  polite  small 
talk  which  corrupts  and  emasculates  society,  he  thought  it 
his  bounden  duty  as  a  man  and  as  the  father  of  a  family 
to  make  her  acknowledge  the  untruth  she  had  uttered. 

She  was  a  little  amazed,  a  little  amused  by  what  she 
conceived  to  be  cloaked  impertinence. 


220  THE  HYPHEN 

"Ah,"  she  said,  lightly,  "it  is  tolerably  easy  to  tell  them 
apart." 

"That,  I  imagine,  is  due  to  their  physical  differences." 

"Is  it?"  she  smiled  mysteriously.  "Infuse  Otto's  soul 
in  Guido's  body,  Guide's  soul  in  Otto's,  and  I'm  quite 
certain  that  neither  you  nor  I  nor  any  one  of  us  will  recog 
nize  either  of  the  boys." 

"I  never  speculate  on  vagaries,"  he  replied.  His  heavi 
ness  had  deepened  into  ponderosity.  As  an  afterthought, 
he  added: 

"Perhaps  this  is  a  new-fangled  religion.  I  am  a  Chris 
tian,  madam." 

She  perceived  that  he  was  temperamentally  incapable  of 
understanding  that  anyone — least  of  all  a  woman — should 
dare  to  poke  fun  at  him.  She  pitied  him. 

"No,"  she  said,  quietly,  "it  is  not  a  religion." 

Now  that  her  voice  was  as  soberly  unphosphorescent  as 
his  own,  he  became  satisfied  and  tranquil.  He  reverted 
to  their  original  topic. 

"You  have  not  yet  told  me  in  which  virtue  my  son 
excels  yours,"  he  said. 

She  marveled  at  the  tactlessness  of  his  persistence. 

"For  one  thing,"  she  said,  "Otto  is  more  single-minded 
than  Guido." 

Otto's  father  swelled  with  pride,  then  very  properly 
looked  regretful  because  of  the  implied  dispraise  of  her 
own  son.  Apparently  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  single- 
mindedness  might  be  due  quite  as  much  to  a  dearth  of 
versatility  and  humor  as  to  a  superior  degree  of  sincerity. 
Frau  Ursula  was  vastly — and  as  she  felt,  naughtily — enter 
tained. 

"We  intend  to  leave  for  our  modest  little  cottage  in 
Pike  County  next  week,"  he  said.  "Otto  refuses  to  go." 

"He  will  change  his  mind  in  a  few  days." 

"Not  so.  I  know  my  son.  He  is  disobedient  because  he 
is  forgetful,  not  because  he  is  self-willed.  Once  in  a 
great  while  he  tells  me  point-blank  that  he  will  not  do 
a  thing.  And  then  he  is  like  a  mule,  and  I  have  learned 
from  bitter  experience  not  to  try  to  force  him  to  do  as 
I  wish." 

"Ah!"  murmured  Frau  Ursula.     So  the  ponderous  one 


CHILDHOOD  221 

had  moments  in  which  he  realized  the  limitation  of  his 
powers. 

"So  there  we  are.  We  are  leaving  for  the  country  next 
week,  as  I've  said.  And  Otto  won't  come  with  us." 

"He  could,  of  course,  stay  with  us." 

"I  was  hoping  you  would  suggest  it.  He  will  be  no 
trouble,  I  think.  He's  good  about  helping.  He  sweeps 
the  sidewalk  and  cleans  all  the  windows  for  his  mother 
every  week,  and  he  does  all  her  errands  and  marketing." 

"My  maid  does  the  cleaning  and  I  do  the  marketing," 
said  Frau  Ursula,  prosily  kind.  "But  I  shall,  nevertheless, 
be  very  glad  to  have  Otto  with  us  for  the  summer.  It 
will  be  wonderful  for  Guido." 

"There's  the  matter  of  his  board,"  said  Mr.  Baumgarten, 
heavily. 

"As  to  that,  Otto,  of  course,  stays  with  us  as  a  dear 
friend,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  quickly. 

"Not  to  be  thought  of,"  said  Otto's  father. 

She  saw  the  pugnacious  jowl  flattening  itself  into  a 
formidable  square  and  as  she  had  no  stomach  for  further 
argument  with  this  sublime  egoist,  she  said,  with  a  smile 
that  was  bland  enough  although  her  eyes  were  chill  and 
distant : 

"As  you  wish." 

Mr.  Baumgarten  anathematized  her  in  secret.  That  was 
the  trouble  with  these  highbrow  women.  His  Crete  would 
never  have  dared  to  smile  at  him  or  any  other  male 
creature  with  such  a  superior  air.  The  equality  of  Frau 
Ursula's  manner  teased  and  harrowed  him  for  days.  It 
irritated  him  because  he  believed  that  she  had  meant  to 
irritate  him.  Possibly  his  irritation  would  have  been  still 
more  profound  if  some  malicious  imp  had  apprised  him 
of  the  truth — that  she  had  taken  not  the  least  thoughts  of 
his  emotions  in  answering  him. 

On  examining  Guido  the  next  day  Dr.  Erdman  expressed 
the  belief  that  Guido  had  not  sustained  any  serious  physical 
injury,  and  that  shock  more  than  injury  was  causing  his 
manifest  discomfort.  He  was  not  quite  certain,  however, 
and  he  suggested  that  Frau  Ursula  have  the  specialist, 
who  had  treated  Guido  before,  come  over  from  New  York. 

Dr.  Erbach,  after  giving  Guido  a  thorough  examination, 


222  THE  HYPHEN 

spoke  of  putting  the  back  in  plaster,  but  reserved  final 
judgment  until  a  week  should  have  elapsed.  He  came 
thrice  that  week.  Twice  the  back  was  cauterized — in  sec 
tions.  Two  weeks  were  allowed  for  the  back  to  heal 
thoroughly  after  the  cauterization.  Then  Guido  was 
sheathed  in  plaster. 

Guide's  behavior  was  angelic.  No  revilement  of  torture 
or  torturer  passed  his  lips.  He  bore  the  torments  which 
nature  and  science  alike  inflicted  upon  him  with  equal 
patience.  His  fortitude,  his  cheerfulness  wore  so  saintly 
an  air  that  all  who  attended  to  him  felt  themselves  to  be 
brutes  thrice  over.  Their  own  health  seemed  indecent  in 
the  face  of  his  martyrdom,  and  the  occasional  pleasures 
which  they  snatched  surreptitiously,  such  as  pleasant  walks 
and  moonlight  evenings  and — in  Mrs.  Thornton's  case — 
the  finer  phases  of  love,  appeared  even  more  piratical  and 
indecorous. 

Frau  Ursula  was  heartbroken.  And  yet — and  yet — 
pitiful,  incomprehensible  perversity  of  the  human  heart ! 
She  was  not  wholly  sorry  to  see  her  own  frail,  self-absorbed, 
and  almost  morbidly  delicate  and  delicate-minded  Guido 
emerging  from  the  hard,  brown,  worldly-minded,  happy- 
go-lucky  chrysalis  in  which  he  had  been  swathed  for 
months.  This  Guido  she  understood.  The  other  Guido, 
delightful  and  winsome  as  he  had  been,  had  been  a 
stranger.  Now  she  knew  for  a  certainty  that  within  the 
husk  of  the  strange  Guido  lurked  her  own  imaginative, 
magnetic,  tender-hearted  joy. 

She  reproached  herself  for  not  having  gloried  sufficiently 
in  his  health  while  it  lasted,  but  the  truth  is,  it  had  at 
times  offended  her.  She  had,  during  his  interregnum  of 
health,  seen  him  tramp  heavy-footed  across  a  field  of 
clover  and  she  had  recalled  on  that  occasion  how,  while 
he  was  ill,  he  had  called  out  one  day  with  every  symptom 
of  physical  anguish  upon  seeing  a  picture  which  portrayed 
children  at  play  in  a  field  of  daisies. 

"Oh,  Mutterchen,  Mutter  chen,"  he  cried.  "Their  backs, 
their  poor,  poor  backs.  See  how  the  children  have  broken 
them."  And  he  had  pointed  to  some  flowers  at  the  edge 
of  the  meadow  which  lay  supine  and  wilted  with  crushed 
and  broken  stems. 

This  refinement  of  feeling  was  coming  back  to  him.    One 


CHILDHOOD  223 

day,  when  she  removed  some  withered  roses  from  a  vase, 
he  begged  her  to  wrap  the  roses  in  tissue-paper  before 
consigning  them  to  the  garbage  pail. 

And  the  weak,  foolish,  adoring  woman  could  have  wept 
with  joy.  She  reflected  that  since  Epictetus  was  all- wise — 
witness  Guido's  ruthless  march  across  the  wild  flowers 
while  in  health  and  security — this  relapse,  demonstrating 
human  vulnerability  and  the  instability  of  even  the  most 
ordinary  of  life's  blessings,  such  as  health,  must  arrest 
forever  the  coarsening  process  of  his  spiritual  life.  When 
he  regained  his  health,  health  would  stiffen  his  stamina. 
That  was  well.  But  strength  can  be  fine  as  well  as  brutal 
or  indifferent,  and  she  who  had  known  Guido  as  the  most 
exquisite  of  mortals  could  not  bear  to  think  of  him  as 
becoming  coarsened  in  fiber. 

Besides,  imperfect  health  has  its  compensations.  It  may 
impede  one's  destiny,  if  one  happens  to  have  one.  She 
was  not  certain  how  his  spiritual  organism  would  react 
when  the  clarion-call  of  life  sounded  in  his  ears.  None 
too  robust  health  may  act  as  a  brake  upon  natural  inclina 
tions,  nor  was  this  casting  a  slur  on  his  proclivities.  What 
she  feared  was  not  sordid  selfishness,  but  an  altruism,  all 
too  heedless  of  self. 

In  brief,  she  desired  her  boy  to  possess  every  fineness 
of  instinct,  and  every  desire  to  carry  this  fineness  into 
execution.  But  she  did  not  desire  that  execution  to  be 
accomplished  to  his  own  material  detriment.  She  wished 
him  to  be  a  negative  Sir  Galahad.  There  was  the  rub! 
In  her  love  for  the  boy  she  was  the  incarnation  of  selfish 
ness. 

Frau  Ursula  hoped  that  the  compensatory  silver  lining 
of  this  new  cloud  which  had  descended  upon  them  would 
be  the  cessation  of  Guido's  Russian  lessons.  But  when  she 
suggested  this,  Guido  became  so  agitated,  and  entreated  her 
so  earnestly  not  to  deprive  him  of  the  entertainment  which 
he  derived  from  Dobronov's  lessons,  that  she  had  not  the 
heart  to  deny  him. 

A  great  friendship  had  grown  up  between  Dobrpnov  and 
Guido.  Sergius  Ivanovich  treated  Guido  as  if  they  were 
of  exactly  the  same  age.  He  initiated  the  lad  into  his 
religious  difficulties,  and  the  condition  of  Dobronov's  soul 
became  an  intensely  interesting  subject  to  Guido.  He  took 


224  THE  HYPHEN 

it  quite  as  seriously  as  Dobronov  did  himself.  He  under 
stood  thoroughly  that  the  soul  of  Sergius  Ivanovich  was 
somewhat  different  in  fiber  and  in  mechanism  from  other 
people's  souls. 

Dobronov,  after  all,  had  rejected  classification  as  a 
Baptist.  His  ancient  prejudice  against  an  ordained  min 
istry  had  been  too  much  for  him.  Moreover,  he  disapproved 
of  baptism  in  a  tank  in  a  church.  A  true  imitation  of 
the  methods  of  Jesus  called  for  immersion  in  a  stream. 
It  was  pointed  out  to  him  that  the  climate  of  the  Northern 
States  was  prohibitive  of  such  a  practice.  Whereat  Do 
bronov  exploded  like  a  torpedo.  Time-servers,  climatic 
epicureans,  selfish  conservers  of  physical  health!  What  if 
folks  did  catch  their  death  of  cold  through  being  immersed 
in  the  icy  waters  of  midwinter?  The  more  happy  they 
to  be  translated  to  heaven  so  speedily  after  being  washed 
in  the  waters  of  belief.  Decidedly,  he  would  not  be  hall 
marked  a  Baptist! 

Otto  remained  with  the  Hausers  all  summer.  He  had, 
perhaps,  in  the  penance  which  his  contrition  sought  to 
impose,  gone  a  little  beyond  his  own  or  any  normal  boy's 
spiritual  depth.  Being  thoroughly  healthy  both  in  body 
and  mind,  he  could  hardly  be  expected  to  keep  his  resolu 
tion  never  to  laugh  again,  even  if  Guido  had  not  absolved 
him  from  that  foolish  vow  as  soon  as  it  was  made.  It 
was  hard  at  first  to  get  him  to  go  outdoors  to  play  with 
other  boys.  Guido  finally  cajoled  him  into  it  by  telling 
him,  in  boy's  jargon,  that  his  mind  was  running  stale  from 
lack  of  friction  with  other  juvenile  mentalities,  allowing 
him  to  infer  that  his  companionship  was  not  as  stimulating 
as  it  had  been  of  yore.  After  that  the  obedient  Otto  went 
out  to  play  with  other  boys  every  day,  but  faithfully  every 
morning,  every  evening  and  every  afternoon,  he  sat  with 
Guido  for  an  hour  at  a  time. 

"Damon  and  Pythias,"  said  Hauser  to  his  wife,  one  day, 
after  watching  the  two  boys  together.  He  was  behaving 
very  well  to  Guido.  He  remembered  to  bring  him  home 
his  favorite  newspaper  every  evening  and  every  Saturday 
night  brought  each  of  the  boys  a  box  of  candy  and  a  new 
book  for  Guido.  But  when  his  wife  attempted  to  thank 
him,  he  rebuffed  her  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

It  is  hard  to  say  what  would  have  become  of  Guido 


CHILDHOOD  225 

without  Otto'  staunch  friendship,  for  Guido  was  worse 
off  than  in  any  previous  round  of  illness.  For  no  pro 
tracted  period,  not  even  after  an  operation,  had  he  been 
unable  to  stir  in  bed.  But  now  his  body,  confined  in  the 
rigid  inflexible  plaster,  was  forced  to  remain  in  an  im 
movable  position  day  after  day  and  night  after  night.  The 
summer  was  exceptionally  warm.  Through  one  agonizing 
week  mercury  never  fell  below  ninety  in  Guide's  room. 
After  the  sun  was  down,  his  mother  and  Mrs.  Thornton 
carried  him  out  upon  the  small  porch,  where  he  might  get 
at  least  a  breath  of  air. 

"The  doctor  is  coming  from  New  York  next  week  to 
take  off  the  plaster,"  Frau  Ursula  told  Guido  one  day  late 
in  August. 

"Then  I  suppose  he'll  begin  burning  my  back  again," 
said  Guido.  "Never  mind,  Mother.  I'd  rather  have  him 
burn  my  back  every  day  in  the  week  than  be  compressed 
in  this  glove-fitting  harness  of  earthenware." 

The  glove-fitting  harness  was  removed  the  following 
week.  The  Doctor  refused  to  hazard  a  judgment  on 
Guido's  condition  until  another  ten  days  should  have 
elapsed.  The  suspense  of  these  last  days,  when  the  boy's 
fate  hung  in  the  balance,  wore  a  cruelly  jagged  edge  which 
slashed  and  cut  at  the  mother's  heart-strings  as  nothing  had 
done  before. 

"Dear  Madam,"  said  Dr.  Erbach,  after  the  final  ex 
amination,  "do  not  look  so  doleful.  The  boy  can  walk, 
as  you  saw  for  yourself.  But — but " 

"Tell  me  quickly,"  quavered  the  tortured  woman. 

"Things  might  be  infinitely  worse.  He  is  going  to  be 
able  to  go  about  his  business  like  the  rest  of  us.  But  he 
will  have  to  be  very,  very  careful  for  many  years  to  come. 
He  must  not  skip  rope.  He  must  not  jerk  himself  about. 
He  must  not  ride  in  any  but  the  smoothest-running 
vehicles.  He  must  not  run.  He  must  not  dance.  Calis 
thenics,  excepting  such  exercises  as  I  will  explain  to  you, 
are,  of  course,  out  the  question.  In  half  a  year  I  want 
to  see  him  again." 

Frau  Ursula  continued  to  question  Dr.  Erbach.  He 
answered  evasively.  Finally,  frowning,  he  said: 

"I  have  told  you  all  I  know.  Even  a  doctor  is  not 
omniscient.  After  his  adolescence  is  passed  he  may  become 


226  THE  HYPHEN 

quite  strong  and  well.  But  I  do  not  predict  that  he  will 
become  strong.  To  do  so  might  be  to  raise  false  hopes. 
But  he  will  not  be  deformed.  And  he  is  able  to  walk.  Be 
satisfied  with  that." 

She  could  get  him  to  say  no  more. 

His  bill  came  with  amazing  celerity.  Frau  Ursula  was 
not  a  poor  woman  and  she  was  accustomed  to  heavy  dis 
bursements  for  doctors  and  nurses  and  medicines.  But 
the  bill  which  Dr.  Erbach  sent  staggered  her.  It  was  so 
vast  that  it  made  her  feel  retrospectively  that  she  had  not 
paid  sufficient  homage  to  a  man  capable  of  and  justified 
in  sending  a  bill  of  such  heroic  dimensions. 

She  was  still  gazing  at  the  bill  in  fascinated  astonishment 
when  Hauser  came  into  the  room  and,  looking  over  her 
shoulder,  glimpsed  the  bill.  What  he  saw  made  him 
whistle. 

"Whew,"  he  said,  "but  that's  steep.  Look  here,  you'd 
better  let  me  take  care  of  that  for  you." 

"Indeed  not,"  Frau  Ursula  replied.  "You've  returned 
my  original  loan — I  can  pay  the  bill  out  of  that  and  invest 
the  rest,  or  I  can  use  some  of  the  interest  of  Guide's 
money." 

Frau  Ursula  had  never  told  Hauser  the  exact  extent 
of  Guide's  fortune.  In  the  early  days  of  her  marriage 
some  defensive  instinct  had  held  her  silent.  Later,  when 
convinced  of  his  financial  dependability,  she  had  been 
ashamed  to  let  him  know  that  she  had  mistrusted  him — 
or  not  trusted  him  entirely — at  first. 

He  misinterpreted  her  refusal  to  allow  him  to  shoulder 
the  bill. 

"You  don't  wish  me  to  pay  a  bill  incurred  for  Guido, 
is  that  it?"  he  demanded,  angrily.  His  quick  transitions 
from  mildness  to  anger,  from  amiability  to  irony  or 
brutality,  remained  a  mystery  to  her. 

Her  surprise  at  his  sudden  change  of  tone  was  so  great 
that  she  did  not  reply. 

"So  that's  it,"  he  said,  bitterly.  Then,  abruptly,  hate 
fully:  "I  won't  be  home  until  late.  Perhaps  not  at  all." 

"Not  at  all?"  Frau  Ursula  questioned,  stupid  with  aston 
ishment.  He  never  remained  away  from  home  unless  he 
went  on  a  business  trip. 

"Have  you  a  right  to  object?" 


CHILDHOOD  227 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  calmly,  not  wish 
ing  to  excite  him  further. 

"Ah!  If  you'd  said  you  had  the  right,  perhaps  you'd 
have  it,"  he  snarled.  "Good-night.  I'll  be  home.  I  had 
no  intention  in  the  world  of  staying  out  late." 

The  door  slammed  behind  him  with  an  impact  that  shook 
the  house. 

Frau  Ursula,  a  little  shaken  by  the  suddenness  of  this 
domestic  earthquake,  dropped  the  bill  on  the  floor  of  the 
dining-room,  where  the  eruption  had  taken  place.  There 
Guido  found  it,  and  stood  staring  in  fright  at  the  heart 
breaking  sum.  He,  too,  had  a  very  inadequate  notion  of 
the  fortune  owned  by  himself  and  by  his  mother. 

It  seemed  to  the  little  lad  that  annihilation  threatened 
the  house  of  Hauser  in  view  of  such  a  catastrophic  bill. 
He  was  so  absorbed  in  it  that  he  did  not  hear  his  mother 
enter  the  room. 

"Guido,  what  have  you  there?" 

"Mutterchen,  this  is  terrible.  And  all  on  my  account. 
How  ever  will  you  pay  it?" 

"Guido,  there  is  lots  of  money  in  the  bank.  Don't  worry, 
dear.  Besides,  it  need  not  be  paid  all  at  once." 

But  the  cud  of  anxiety  which  he  had  been  chewing  was 
not  so  easily  relinquished.  His  supple  mind  was  harking 
back  to  the  tales  of  her  childhood  with  which  she  had  been 
wont  to  enliven  his  bed-ridden  days.  Memory,  vicariously, 
was  conjuring  visions  of  splendor,  of  luxury  militant,  of 
wealth  fabulous  and  inexhaustible.  Juxtaposed  to  this  was 
the  financial  disaster  which  had  now  descended  upon  the 
Hauser  household — according  to  his  notion. 

"Ach,  Mutterchen,"  he  said,  absorbed  entirely  in  the 
financial  quicksands  in  which  he  fancied  his  mother  strug 
gling,  "Ach,  Mutterchen,  why  did  you  ever  leave  Germany? 
There  you  were  rich " 

A  change,  terrible  in  its  swift  intensity,  convulsed  Frau 
Ursula's  face.  For  a  moment  she  seemed  like  a  woman 
frozen  by  supermundane  blasts  of  frost.  When  she 
breathed  again  stark  horror  was  written  in  her  eyes  and 
painted  on  her  face.  Between  the  horror  rippled  indigna 
tion  and  courage  implacable. 

She  had,  for  the  nonce,  forgotten  all  about  the  Syn- 
.thetic  Experiment,  and  the  Attitude  of  No-Bias. 


228  THE  HYPHEN 

"Guido,"  she  said  in  a  voice  of  ferrous  gentleness,  "do 
not  make  me  regret  that  .1  told  you  those  stories  of  a 
childhood  happily  passed  in  Germany.  Every  contented 
childhood,  in  retrospection,  seems  a  fairyland  if  for  no 
other  reason  than  that  it  has  become  as  unattainable  as  the 
real  fairyland  in  which  exists  the  Fountain  of  Youth  or 
King  Midas. 

"Never,  dear  boy,  let  me  hear  you  utter  so  wicked  a 
wish  again." 

Guido  opened  his  eyes  wide  in  astonishment.  Why  was 
his  Mutterchen  thus  offended?  Wicked!  A  hard  word 
to  apply  to  his  benevolent  desire  to  see  her  relieved  of  all 
her  financial  worries. 

"Once  before,  Guido,"  she  continued,  "I  entreated  you 
always  to  remember  that  you  are  a  native-born  Ameri 
can.  It  seems  I  did  not  speak  with  sufficient  emphasis. 
Try  and  comprehend,  Guido,  all  that  this  country — your 
country — stands  for.  I  say  'try'  advisedly,  Guido,  for  you 
are  too  young  to  understand  just  how  vastly  superior 
our  country  is  to  every  other  country  in  the  world.  At 
present  you  must  take  my  word  for  it.  You  must  take 
my  word  for  it  also  when  I  tell  you  that  I  who  enjoyed 
the  highest  social  position  abroad  have  never,  not  in  the 
hour  of  darkest  trouble,  regretted  that  I  cast  aside  all 
the  advantages  which  my  birth  gave  me,  for  in  exchanging 
them  for  American  citizenship  I  became  a  free  woman. 
You,  mem  kleiner  Guido,  who  were  born  free  and  bred 
free,  have  not  the  remotest  idea  of  what  it  means  to  be 
unfree,  to  lead  a  narrow,  cramped,  confined  inner  life.  No 
material  well-being,  no  appanage  of  rank  can  assuage  the 
pain  that  accrues  to  that  bitter  knowledge. 

"There  are  so  many  things  I  have  not  told  you  about  the 
life  I  left  behind  me,"  she  continued.  "Perhaps  I  was 
wrong  to  dwell  on  the  pleasant  aspect  of  my  childhood, 
and  to  repress  the  tragic  aspect  of  my  maturity.  But  you 
were  too  young,  Guido,  you  still  are  too  young  to  be  told 
of  certain  things.  They  must  wait  a  little  longer  before 
I  tell  you  of  them. 

"But  there  is  one  thing,  Guido,  which  I  can  say  to  you 
now  and  which  you  are  not  too  young  to  understand. 
You  have  read  American  history  both  in  school  and  while 
in  bed.  You  adore  Washington,  you  idolize  Lincoln. 


CHILDHOOD  229 

Besides  those  names  all  the  insignia  of  rank  with  which 
the  potentates  of  Europe  bedeck  themselves,  seem  petty, 
seem  cheap  and  tawdry,  seem  like  the  trappings  of  a  panto 
mime  or  a  comic  opera. 

"Have  you  ever  asked  yourself  what  made  those  men 
so  great  ?  Washington  was  an  aristocrat,  one  of  the  landed 
gentry.  Lincoln  was  a  son  of  the  soil,  a  man  of  the  com 
mon  people.  They  differed  in  many  qualities.  Wherein 
did  they  meet?  What  attributes  did  they  share?" 

She  came  to  a  full  stop,  indicating  thereby  that  the 
question  was  not  a  rhetorical  one.  Guido  remained  silent, 
feeling  ashamed  and  culpable.  He  knew  not  what  to  reply. 
She  adjured  him  to  resort  to  analysis  and  not  to  be  afraid 
to  let  his  wits  go  off  on  an  unusual  tack.  The  unblazed 
trail,  she  said,  was  the  trail  most  tenderly  cherished  by 
free  men  the  world  over.  Forest  primeval  and  jungle 
might  be  darkling  and  forbidding,  but  men  whose  souls  were 
the  souls  of  free  men  feared  nought  but  God  alone.  Such 
was  the  Creed  of  Democracy. 

At  that  the  child  cried  out  that  he  would  give  her  the 
desired  answer.  Then  he  paused,  overcome  with  fright 
at  having  charted  so  momentous  a  sea  alone. 

"Well?"  Frau  Ursula  demanded,  expectantly. 

"It's  because  of  what  they  thought  was  right,"  Guido 
said.  "It's  because  both  Washington  and  Lincoln  thought 
that  everybody  has  rights,  not  only  those  who  are  born 
rich  and  with  titles." 

"That's  it,  Guido.  They  loved  humanity,  they  and  many 
others  who  helped  them  in  their  great  work.  Justice  and 
kindness,  kindness  and  justice — those  are  the  watchwords 
of  America,  and  all  who  confess  to  these  ideals  are  true 
Americans  whether  they  were  born  in  America  or  in 
Europe.  My  little  boy  has  the  great  privilege  of  being 
American-born.  He  must  never  be  less  than  a  true  Ameri 
can.  Better  than  that  he  can  never  be.  And  every  day 
of  his  life  he  must  be  thankful  that  he  is  what  he  is." 

"I  will  never  forget,  Mother,  never." 

The  child  was  in  a  state  of  almost  religious  exaltation. 

And  suddenly  Frau  Ursula  remembered  the  Synthesis 
and  the  Experiment,  and  Guide's  Destiny,  and  the  Spirit  of 
No-Bias. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  said  defiantly  to  herself.     "I  don't 


23o  THE  HYPHEN 

care.  If  there  is  a  bias  in  being  a  good  American,  then 
the  Experiment  will  have  to  take  its  chances." 

Of  all  the  heterogeneous  lessons  in  which  Guide's  child 
hood  abounded,  this  was  the  lesson  which  became  most 
closely  intertwined  with  his  personality.  It  became  part 
of  himself,  so  closely  did  he  hug  it  to  his  heart.  The 
sense  of  it  abode  with  him  always.  As  he  grew  older, 
through  all  his  other  loves — his  joy  in  nature,  his  en 
thusiasm  for  the  English  language  and  for  English  litera 
ture,  his  delight  in  American  customs,  habits,  breeding — ran 
his  sober  love  of  country. 

His  mother's  fervent  plea  resulted  in  his  thoroughgoing 
Americanization. 

And  the  effect  of  this  upon  the  Synthetic  Experiment? 

We  shall  see. 


Part  II 
YOUTH 


CHAPTER  I 

SPRING,  the  bride  of  Phoenix,  entered  upon  her  nine 
teen  hundred  and  fourteen  incarnation  garbed  in  her 
customary  tender  splendor.  Her  daintiness  of  attire  gave 
no  sign  that  the  sad  distinction  would  attach  to  her  of 
being  the  last  spring  which  some  half  a  million  young  men 
would  see — a  half -million  young  men  constituting  the  flower 
of  France's,  England's,  Belgium's  and  Germany's  youth. 

Spring,  ninteen  hundred  and  fourteen,  was  of  particular 
interest  to  Guido,  for  it  was  the  season  which,  if  all  went 
well,  would  witness  his  school  education  nicely  rounded  off 
by  a  public  presentation  of  a  diploma.  After  that  there 
would  follow  four  years  at  college. 

Guido  and  Stan  were  engineers-elect.  Close  at  hand 
was  the  Anasquoit  College  of  Technology,  quite  the  finest 
institution  of  its  kind  in  the  United  States,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  it  reared  its  battlemented  front — it  was  built  to 
resemble  a  medieval  castle — in  the  lazy,  hazy  atmosphere 
of  Anasquoit. 

The  Deutsch-Amerikanische  Realschule  dispensed  a 
scholarship  to  the  graduate  obtaining  the  highest  average 
percentage.  The  scholarship  provided  for  the  entire  four 
years'  course  at  the  Anasquoit  College. 

Guido,  all  through  the  academic  classes,  which  afforded 
the  equivalent  of  a  public  high  school  training,  had  ranked 
first,  with  Otto  as  a  close  second.  During  one  term  only 
had  Otto  outstripped  him.  Guido  had  been  in  bad  health 
during  that  term  and  had  not  been  able  to  keep  abreast  of 
the  laboratory  work  in  chemistry. 

"Of  course,"  said  Egon  von  Dammer  one  day  as  Guido, 
Otto,  Stan  and  Egon  were  walking  home  together,  "one  of 
you  two  fellows  is  going  to  get  the  scholarship.  The  rest 
of  us  are  out  of  the  running.  You,  Guido,  or  Otto.  So 
long,  boys!" 

Guido  and  Otto  stole  guilty  glances  at  each  other. 

233 


234  THE  HYPHEN 

Neither  relished  the  idea  of  wresting  the  scholarship  from 
his  best  friend. 

"What  the  devil  made  von  Dammer  say  that  ?"  said  Stan, 
after  Egon  had  left  them. 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  he  say  it?"  said  Otto.  "It's  the 
truth.  No,  it's  not  the  entire  truth.  Guido  is  going  to 
win  out  as  a  matter  of  course." 

Guido  went  home  in  an  unhappy  frame  of  mind.  Egon's 
words  forced  him  to  face  an  issue  which  he  was  most 
unwilling  to  face.  Otto's  father  had  failed  in  business 
some  five  years  ago  and  the  Baumgartens  were  having  a 
hard  time  of  it.  They  had  sold  their  cottage  in  the  moun 
tains  and  their  modest  little  home  in  Bismarck  Street  in 
order  to  meet  Mr.  Baumgarten's  business  obligations. 
Ponderous  he  was,  and  egoistic  and  dictatorial,  but  honest 
withal. 

For  Guido,  who  had  a  fortune  of  his  own,  as  he  was 
now  aware,  the  scholarship  spelled  glory.  For  Otto,  in 
addition  to  glory,  it  held  the  substantial  benefit  of  an  edu 
cation,  and  failing  to  win  the  shadow  he  would  in  all 
probability  be  forced  to  forego  the  substance  as  well. 

Otto  who,  as  a  rule,  did  not  know  the  complexion  of 
reticence  concerning  his  own  affairs  where  Guido  was  con 
cerned,  had,  since  his  father's  failure  and  particularly 
during  the  past  year,  maintained , a  curious  silence  concern 
ing  his  plans  following  graduation  from  the  Realschule. 

Guido  went  home  and  shut  himself  in  his  own  room  to 
thrash  out  the  situation.  He  wished  that  he  might  have 
confided  in  his  mother,  but,  how  could  he?  without  ap 
pearing  an  insufferable  prig.  There  were,  he  observed, 
conditions  and  occurrences  in  life  which  could  not  be 
handled  in  conversation  with  decency.  This  was  one  of 
them.  After  the  Sacrifice,  perhaps,  to  assuage  his  mother's 
wounded  pride,  he  might  tell  her.  He  might.  He  was 
not  at  all  sure  that  he  would. 

As  to  the  Sacrifice  itself,  what  else  in  heaven's  name 
was  there  to  do?  Otto,  if  conditions  had  been  reversed, 
would  have  done  the  same  for  him. 

Four  hours  were  devoted  to  each  study  at  the  final  ex 
aminations.  The  pupils  were  furnished  with  pencil,  pen 
and  ink,  with  yellow  and  white  pads.  The  rough  working 
out  of  the  problems  or  answers  was  done  upon  the  yellow 


YOUTH  235 

pads,  as  upon  a  loose-leaf  diary,  and  the  work  was  then 
copied  from  this  Kladde  upon  the  white  pad.  No  erasures 
were  permitted  either  upon  the  yellow  or  the  white  paper. 

Guido  had  no  intention  of  depreciating  his  standing  more 
than  was  necessary  to  secure  Otto  the  scholarship.  It  de 
volved  upon  him,  therefore,  after  working  out  the  An 
swers  to  the  Question  Sheet  upon  the  yellow  paper,  to 
introduce  a  sufficient  number  of  errors  in  transferring  the 
work  to  the  white  paper  to  lower  his  usual  standing  by 
from  four  to  five  per  cent.  It  was  a  delicate  operation, 
and  Guido,  after  mature  reflection,  decided  that  the  ampu 
tation  of  percentages  must  be  performed  upon  History  and 
Literature,  studies  in  which  he  was  particularly  strong  and 
in  which,  therefore,  he  ran  no  risk  whatever  of  falling 
below  the  percentage  required  in  each  individual  study. 

He  felt  very  heroic — in  more  ways  than  one — as,  on  the 
days  of  the  History  and  Literature  Test,  he  performed  the 
singular  task  he  had  set  himself.  He  was  blissfully  un 
aware  of  the  fact  that  he  was  engaged  in  perpetrating  a 
piece  of  knavery.  Self-interest  plays  so  great  a  part  in 
the  struggle  for  existence  that  the  heroism  of  acting  in 
contradiction  to  its  dictates  is  usually  considered  tanta 
mount  to  wiping  all  minor  offenses  off  the  slate,  which  is 
only  a  different  way  of  saying  that  the  Golden  Rule  either 
embraces  or  supersedes  all  subsidiary  branches  of  the 
ethical  code. 

Guido  worked  cannily  and  figured  that  he  had  brought 
his  rating  down  from  ninety-seven,  his  last  average,  to 
ninety-two.  So  he  had.  But  he  grew  pale  with  sudden 
emotion  when,  a  week  later,  the  Herr  Direktor  read  the 
report  of  the  graduating  class's  work.  The  first  name  to 
be  read  was  Egon's,  who  had  passed  with  ninety-four  per 
cent.  Why  had  not  Otto's  name  preceded  Egon's?  Guido 
had  a  horrid  premonition  of  what  had  happened. 

"Guido  von  Estritz,"  again  announced  the  principal's 
voice,  ninety-three  and  a  half.  Otto  Baumgarten  ninety- 
two." 

Otto  below  Egon!  Otto  below  himself!  For  one 
moment  everything  went  black  before  Guido's  eyes,  then 
he  found  himself  staring  stupidly  at  Otto,  but  Otto  was 
as  white  and  as  stupid-looking  as  himself. 


236  THE  HYPHEN 

As  soon  as  discipline  was  relaxed,  Otto  left  his  seat  and 
came  over  to  Guido. 

"What  happened,  Guido?"  he  asked.  "You  never  fell 
below  ninety-seven  before.  How  did  it  happen?" 

Otto's  trembling  underlip  was  more  illuminating  than 
words.  Guido  saw  a  great  light.  He  accused  Otto  out 
right  of  having  committed  the  juggling  of  which  he  himself 
had  been  guilty.  Otto  grew  red,  stuttered,  mumbled  and 
finally  confessed.  He  had  been  afraid,  he  said,  that 
Chemistry,  which  was  Guido's  Achilles'  Heel,  would  lose 
him  the  scholarship,  to  which,  Otto  felt,  Guido  was  over 
whelmingly  entitled  in  view  of  his  brilliant  work  through 
out  the  year.  He  had,  therefore,  as  his  give-away  underlip 
had  already  informed  Guido,  played  Damon  to  Guido's 
Pythias. 

Guido  burst  into  Homeric  laughter  while  Otto,  his  con 
fession  made,  wept  unashamedly.  Later  Guido  would  see 
the  pity  and  the  beauty  of  the  Sacrifice  which,  through 
being  mutual,  had  neutralized  itself,  and  Otto  would  see 
the  humor.  But  for  the  moment  Guido  laughed  and  Otto 
wept. 

About  a  week  later  Egon  von  Dammer  called  to  see 
Guido.  After  a  sojourn  of  eight  years  in  America,  Egon's 
father  found  that  his  business  recalled  him  to  Germany. 
Egon  was  genuinely  sorry  to  leave  the  United  States — at 
least  he  said  so — but  his  father  brooked  no  opposition. 
An  old  bachelor  uncle  had  died,  and  a  fortune  of  some 
magnitude  was  involved.  In  brief,  Egon  would  be  unable 
to  avail  himself  of  the  scholarship  into  which  he  had  fallen 
so  unexpectedly.  He  had,  therefore,  made  a  pilgrimage 
to  the  house  of  the  Herr  Direktor,  and  had  asked  him 
whether  the  scholarship  might  not  be  transferred  to  a 
friend  of  his  own  choice.  The  Herr  Direktor  had  been 
very  diffident.  Such  a  thing  had  never  been  done  before. 
Egon  had  pressed  his  suit,  naming  Guido  as  the  beneficiary. 
Still  the  Herr  Direktor  remained  obdurate.  Thereupon 
Egon  confided  to  him  a  suspicion  which  had  graually  been 
shaping  itself  in  his  mind.  The  Herr  Direktor  became 
more  tractable,  the  suspicion  seemed  so  very  plausible. 

Then  the  examination  papers  of  Guido  and  Otto  were 
produced,  and  the  comparison  of  the  yellow  and  white 
sheets  had  shown  that  Egon's  suspicions  had  been  well 


YOUTH  237 

founded.  Guido  had  relied  upon  it  that  the  Kladde  would 
not  be  compared  with  the  clean  work  upon  the  white  sheets. 
It  was  generally  understood  that  the  handing  in  of  the 
yellow  sheets  along  with  the  white  was  a  mere  matter  of 
form.  Otto  had  argued  in  similar  fashion.  Guido,  judged 
by  the  work  on  the  Kladde,  had  passed  at  98^2,  an  un 
precedented  average  in  the  annals  of  the  Realschule.  Otto 
had  fallen  only  one-half  of  one  per  cent  below  his  friend's 
ratio.  The  Herr  Direktor  was  delighted.  He  rubbed  his 
hands  and  cackled  joyfully.  The  inexplicable  backsliding 
of  the  two  prize  pupils  of  his  school  had  irked  him  not 
a  little.  He  said  kind  things  about  boys  capable  of  so  dis 
interested  a  friendship,  and  indulged  in  anything  but  kind 
comments  on  the  teachers  who  had  allowed  themselves  to 
be  imposed  upon  in  so  bare-faced  a  way.  He  congratulated 
Egon  upon  his  perspicacity,  and  delegated  him  to  inform 
Guido  officially  that  he  had  come  into  his  own. 

Guido  was  both  pleased  and  displeased.  He  thanked 
Egon  warmly,  said  he  had  acted  nobly,  but — there  was 
Otto  in  as  bad  a  plight  as  before.  He,  Otto,  had  spoken 
of  taking  a  stenographic  position  for  the  summer,  or  for 
a  full  year,  in  order  to  pay  his  way  through  college  for 
the  same  period.  It  would  be  a  shame  to  make  him  lose  a 
year's  time  at  hack  work. 

The  two  boys  took  counsel  together  and  together  ven 
tured  to  lay  their  difficulty — or  Otto's — before  the  Herr 
Direktor.  But  the  Herr  Direktor  was  not  to  be  trifled  with 
a  second  time.  What  were  they  asking  him  to  do  ?  Juggle 
percentages  as  they  had  juggled  answers?  He  became 
floridly  indignant  and  told  them  to  go  to  their  several  homes 
and  repent  of  their  dishonest  ways. 

Otto  took  the  news  magnificently.  He  congratulated 
Guido  upon  his  good  luck  in  being  found  out  and  felicitated 
Egon  upon  his  generosity,  and  wrung  the  hands  of  his 
friends  so  forcibly  that  both  Guido  and  Egon  were  almost 
prostrated  with  pain,  for  Otto  had  developed  the  stature 
and  the  strength  of  a  giant.  He  entreated  his  friends  not 
to  worry  on  his  score.  What?  Allow  either  of  them  to 
help  him  with  money?  Not  to  be  thought  of.  He  had 
the  offer  of  two  positions  for  the  summer.  One  was  a 
stenographic  job  at  twenty  per;  the  other  a  job  as  helper 


238  THE  HYPHEN 

in  a  machine  shop  at  ten  per.  He  expected  to  start  the 
following  Monday  in  the  clerical  position. 

Stan,  when  the  boys  told  him  the  story,  made  no  com 
ment  whatever.  He  stretched  out  his  handsome  self  at 
full  length,  leisurely  lighted  his  pipe,  and  very  spectacularly 
said  nothing. 

"Wasn't  it  fine  of  Egon?"  Guido  demanded,  determined 
to  wring  a  word  of  praise  from  Stan. 

"The  question  before  the  house  is  this,"  said  Stan, 
somberly.  "If  Egon's  father  had  not  decided  upon  this 
mysterious  European  trip,  would  Egon  or  would  he  not 
have  handed  back  what  wasn't  'his'n  ?' " 

"You're  never  fair  to  Egon?"  said  Guido,  disgustedly. 

"Well,"  said  Stan,  lazily,  "I  don't  want  you  to  feel, 
Guy,  that  you're  under  obligations  to  Dutch  because  he 
disgorged  what  he'd  no  right  to  anyhow.  Hope  he'll  never 
come  back  from  the  other  side  of  the  big  pond,  I'm  sure." 

The  conversation  was  cut  short  by  Eddie  Erdman's 
arrival.  The  boys  were  celebrating  the  happy  outcome  of 
the  Egon-Guido-Otto  imbroglio  in  Guido's  rooms.  Henry 
Foerster  slipped  in  as  silently  as  always  in  the  wake  of 
Eddie's  broad  shadow. 

"Well,  Son  of  Laconia,"  said  Stan,  how  are  you  going 
to  earn  your  livelihood  now  you  are  out  of  the  woods?" 

"Law,"  said  the  laconic  one,  and  all  stared  in  amaze 
ment.  Law  was  the  -\ery  last  profession  they  would  have 
suspected  Henry  of  embracing.  No  one  ever  ventured  to 
tease  Henry,  however,  and  they  all  turned  to  Eddie. 

"Well,  Rhino,  it's  the  vaudeville  stage  for  yours,  I'm 
thinking?"  Stan  interrogated. 

"Nix  on  the  vaudeville  stage,"  said  Eddie.  "Me  wants 
to  live  and  die  and  be  buried  in  this  sleepy  old  burg.  For 
why  ?  Because  I  don't  like  traveling,  for  one  thing.  For 
another,  my  brilliant  career  was  all  mapped  out  for  me 
over  a  year  ago." 

The  boys  clamored  noisily  to  be  let  into  the  secret. 

"Going  to  be  a  second  Pierpont  Morgan  ?  Perhaps  you're 
a  relative  of  the  Astorbilts?  Is  John  D.  going  to  let  you 
in  on  the  ground  floor?"  They  besieged  him  with  ques 
tions,  teasing  him  unmercifully,  as  usual. 

"Look  here,"  said  Eddie,  "I  haven't  an  uncle  in  Wall 
Street,  but  I  have  an  aunt  who  has  the  smartest  millinery 


YOUTH  239 

shop  on  Bismarck  Street,  corner  of  Walnut.  She  put  my 
grosser  Bruder  through  his  medical  course,  you  know." 

''Don't  tell  me  you're  going  to  be  a  saw-bones,  too?" 
yelled  Stan. 

"Not  on  your  tintype,  son.  One  saw-bones  in  the  fambly 
is  enough.  Thanks  awfully  for  nothing.  I  love  the  ladies. 
God  bless  'em.  I'd  never  have  the  heart  to  put  the  dear 
pretty  things  on  the  table  and  slice  away  at  their  poor 
ailing  innards.  I'd  rather  sit  the  cunnin'  little  critters  in 
front  of  a  table,  and  see  'em  try  on  pretty  hats." 

"Eddie!"  the  boys  roared  in  unison.  They  thought  it 
one  of  the  Rhino's  jokes. 

"Sure  as  my  name  is  Fatty  the  Rhino.  I'm  going  into 
the  millinery  business  with  my  old  Tante.  For  over  a  year 
I've  been  trimming  her  best  bonnets  for  her,  and  she  tells 
me  they've  sold  like  hot  cakes." 

An  uproar  arose.  It  was  Bedlam  let  loose.  They  clapped 
their  hands,  they  stamped  upon  the  floor,  they  caterwauled. 
Suddenly  something  in  Eddie's  face  informed  them  that 
he  was  not  stringing  them,  and  their  hilarity  subsided 
spasmodically. 

"Now,  boys,"  said  Eddie,  "I'm  a  good  sport.  I've  served 
as  a  butt  for  you  fellows  all  my  life  and  I  didn't  mind 
and  I  don't  mind,  but  there  is  one  thing  you  must  not 
tease  me  about.  You  to  your  work,  I  to  mine.  A  pretty 
hat  on  a  plain  face  may  do  as  much  to  make  history  or 
more — for  man  is  born  of  woman — than  the  finest  railroad 
bridge  or  cantilever  which  one  of  you  chaps  may  devise. 
So  'ware.  Do  not  bay  me  or  I'll  bite." 

This  sobered  the  others.  They  were  considerably  amazed 
by  this  defiant  unfurling  of  Eddie's  philosophy — they  had 
been  so  used  to  seeing  in  him  only  the  good-natured  clown. 
They  had  always  liked  Eddie;  now,  when  they  had  been 
about  to  steep  their  liking  for  him  in  contempt  because 
he  had  shamelessly  announced  his  intention  of  embracing 
a  business  both  effeminate  and  sumptuary,  he  had  pulled 
them  up  sharply,  and  lo !  they  respected  him. 

Several  minutes  elapsed  before  they  returned  to  their 
former  hilarity.  Coming  manhood  had  cast  its  shadow 
before,  and  the  adumbration  had  sobered  them. 


CHAPTER  II 

and  Otto  lay  in  the  long,  tangled  grass  of  a 
meadow  deliciously  sheltered  by  weeping  willows  and 
fanned  by  breezes  cooled  by  a  tiny,  brawling  brook  which, 
like  a  small  dog,  racketed  along  with  an  effusion  wholly 
incommensurate  with  its  size. 

They  lay  in  a  position  which  no  self-respecting  sculptor 
would  have  cared  to  perpetuate.  They  lay  not  gently 
recumbent,  with  an  elbow  for  a  prop  or  resting  gracefully 
upon  one  hand,  but  prone  upon  their  stomachs.  An  open 
book  lay  within  the  angle  of  vision  of  each.  Otto  was 
assiduously  applying  himself  to  a  German  translation  of 
"The  Taming  of  the  Shrew." 

Guido  was  not  reading.  He  was  pursuing  the  most 
pleasant  of  all  occupations — he  was  day-dreaming.  He 
was  lapped  in  that  drowsy  content  which  comes  from  dally 
ing  in  the  borderland  that  lies  between  thought  and  emo 
tion.  He  was  ruminating — if  the  unformulated  ghosts  of 
thought  which  flitted  like  butterflies  in  and  out  of  his 
consciousness  may  be  designated  by  so  specific  a  term — 
upon  the  great  mystery  of  race. 

He  had  awakened  that  morning  teased  and  yet  pleased 
by  the  dictum,  read  he  could  not  remember  where,  that 
he  who  commands  more  than  one  language  possesses  more 
than  one  soul. 

He  felt  that  that  was  true.  Days  there  were  when,  on 
awakening,  dreamy,  inchoate  and  mysterious  splendors 
seemed  to  beckon  him  on  into  a  wilderness  which  had  neither 
a  material  beginning  nor  an  end,  which  was  populated  by 
weird  phantoms  that  took  no  thought  of  material  things, 
that  cared  not  whether  they  ate  or  drank  or  slept,  that 
sacrificed  everything  for  an  idea  and  were  happy  in  making 
the  sacrifice.  On  such  mornings  he  was  not  content  until 
he  had  read  a  page  in  some  Russian  book,  Pushkin  or 
Tolstoy  preferably,  and  called  that  part  of  his  ego  his 
Russian  dream-self,  communicated  to  him,  as  he  thought, 

340 


YOUTH  241 

by  all  the  fantastic  sense  and  nonsense  with  which  it  was 
Dobronov's  habit  to  regale  him.  He  had  no  notion  that 
his  dream-self  was  not  an  acquisition  but  a  heritage. 

Then,  again,  there  were  days  when  he  fluctuated  between 
fatuous  sentimentality  and  intensely  utilitarian  purpose, 
when  he  felt  that  to  possess  those  attributes  was  to  possess 
superlative  virtue.  On  such  days  he  felt  that  his  German 
blood  was  rampant  in  his  veins,  and  a  page  of  Goethe 
or  Schiller  or  Fulda  were  required  to  shake  him  back  into 
everyday  life. 

Then  there  were  days  when  he  awoke  normally,  hap 
pily,  sunnily  without  any  of  these  strange,  self-conscious 
yearnings,  when  he  was  humbly  content  to  be  alive,  eager 
to  perform  his  tasks  for  the  day,  and  when  morbid  self- 
analysis  had  no  part  in  him.  On  such  days  he  could  no 
more  have  read  Russian  or  German  to  advantage  than  he 
could  have  swum  across  the  Hudson.  On  these,  his  natural 
days,  he  would  steal  an  hour  from  school-work  before 
going  to  bed,  and  read  an  act  or  two  of  Shakespeare,  or 
an  essay  by  Emerson,  or  a  few  pages  from  Macaulay. 

Guido,  at  sixteen,  was  a  Shakespeare  devotee  as  he  had 
been  a  Schiller  enthusiast  at  eleven.  On  some  such  days, 
balmy  spring  days,  when  the  breath  of  rejuvenation 
passed  through  the  air  like  a  hallelujah,  or  soft  mellow 
autumn  days  which  seemed  prophetic  of  immortality  in 
their  delicious  prolongation  of  summer,  the  majestic 
rhythm  of  the  Shakespearian  blank  verse — or  Marlowe's — 
seemed  to  move  through  his  body  and  soul  like  a  song  with 
out  words,  for  detached  from  the  words  in  which  it 
moved,  which  veiled  it  but  failed  to  obscure  its  sublimity, 
it  seemed  a  corporeal  thing,  a  thing  holy  and  beautiful 
like  a  sanctuary  or  a  shrine;  and  it  seemed  to  enter  his 
blood,  and  to  make  that  move  in  unison  with  it  and  sing 
such  songs  as  mortal  ear  never  heard. 

Guido  was  happiest  on  these  days,  which,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  he  called  his  American  days.  The  self  which 
came  to  the  surface  then  was  real,  his  true  self,  he  felt 
certain.  And  yet  he  would  not  have  discarded  either  of 
his  subsidiary  selves  if  it  had  lain  in  his  power  to  do  so. 
Such  is  the  cohesive  force  that  binds  us  to  every  current 
inhering  in  us. 

Otto,   untroubled   by   any  leanings   toward   the   mystic, 


242  THE  HYPHEN 

wholly  unimaginative  and  knowing  nothing  of  a  multiple 
personality,  was  completely  immersed  in  his  German  trans 
lation  of  Shakespeare. 
'  "Otto,"  said  Guido. 

"Well?" 

"Otto,  why  in  heaven's  name  don't  you  read  Shakespeare 
in  English?" 

"Why  should  I  ?" 

"For  one  thing  because  the  German  version,  though  ex 
cellent,  is  inaccurate.  'Wilderspenstige'  is  a  rotten  equiva 
lent  of  'Shrew.' ' 

Otto  scowled. 

"It  suits  me,"  he  said.  "I  like  'Wilderspenstige'  better 
than  'Shrew.'  The  fault  is  with  the  original,  not  with  the 
translation." 

Guido  roared  out  his  delight  in  Otto's  unconscious  racial 
and  individual  egoism.  He  was  much  too  contented  at  the 
moment  to  quarrel  with  anyone. 

"What  would  you  say  if  I  read  Schiller  in  English?" 
Guido  resumed. 

"I'd  say  it  was  none  of  my  confounded  business  if  you 
choose  to  make  a  silly  ass  of  yourself." 

Guido  chuckled  gleefully. 

"You  would,"  he  said,  "like  fun.  You'd  read  me  a 
lecture  on  the  necessity  of  not  neglecting  the  'Mutter- 
sprache.' " 

Otto  grinned. 

"If  you  know  just  what  I'd  do  why  do  you  ask  me?" 
he  inquired.  "And  now  shut  up.  I  want  to  read." 

"I'd  like  you  to  try  and  get  my  point  of  view,"  said 
Guido. 

"Why  don't  you  have  a  try  at  mine?"  Otto  rejoined. 

"See  how  much  nicer  I  am  than  you,"  said  Guido,  teas- 
ingly.  "Here  is  a  book  I  would  not  have  read  in  English 
for  worlds."  And  he  lightly  tossed  a  small  volume  in  a 
typically  neat  German  binding  across  to  Otto. 

Otto  picked  it  up  and  whistled. 

"Bei  Kaiser's,"  he  read.  "Where  did  you  get  it?  Any 
good?" 

"Egon.     Yep.     Fine." 

"Well,"  said  Otto,  "that  at  least  is  a  point  on  which  we 
agree.  We  both  admire  the  Kaiser." 


YOUTH  243 

"I  sure  do,"  said  Guide,  contentedly.  He  rolled  over 
on  his  back  and,  hands  clasped  under  his  head,  regarded 
the  fragments  of  sky  visible  through  the  heavy  leafage  of 
the  maple  under  which  they  were  lying.  Otto  went  back 
to  his  reading,  but  in  a  few  moments  he  announced: 

"I'm  tired  of  reading.  Let's  go  and  see  if  the  dancing 
has  begun." 

Guide  laughed  clandestinely.  He  had  not  desired  to  go  to 
this — their  last — school-picnic,  which,  since  he  durst  neither 
row,  nor  dance,  nor  jump  hurdles  nor  in  any  way  exert 
himself,  was  a  continuous  mortification  of  the  flesh.  But 
Otto  had  plead  so  eloquently,  adducing  so  many  plausible 
reasons  why  Guido  should  selfishly  desire  to  go,  that  Guido, 
a  little  in  the  dark  as  to  Otto's  true  motives,  had  finally 
consented. 

The  next  day  Guido  had  seen  a  great  light.  Otto  was  in 
love.  Otto,  walking  at  Elschen  Marlow's  side,  was  blind  to 
all  beside.  Any  other  boy  Guido  would  have  chaffed  about 
his  infatuation,  but  not  Otto.  Guido  divined  Otto's  psy 
chology  as  clearly  as  if  it  had  been  his  own,  more  so, 
perhaps;  for  Guido  was  an  unusually  keen  observer  and 
Otto,  rough,  sensitive,  good-hearted,  opinionated,  honest, 
loyal  Otto  was  simplicity  itself. 

Otto  was  that  rarity,  a  man — or  a  boy — with  a  monogamic 
soul.  He  would  make  the  gift  of  his  love  once  and  once 
only.  In  making  it  there  would  be  no  temporizing,  no 
compromising,  no  half-way  measures.  For  Otto  love 
meant  a  complete  surrender  of  affection  and  loyalty.  Thus 
royally,  also,  had  he  given  his  friendship.  He  worshiped 
Guido  with  a  sort  of  fierce  devotion,  a  devotion  which 
exhausted  itself  upon  Guido,  leaving  nothing  for  other 
friends.  Guido  often  wondered  at  the  strange  diffidence 
which  Otto  manifested  toward  their  mutual  friends.  He 
was  hail-fellow-well-met  with  everybody,  but  Guido  ab 
sorbed  his  entire  capacity  for  friendship.  Guido  might 
have  done  for  any  other  needy  friend  what  he  did  for 
Otto — try  to  underpass  him — but  Otto  would  have  made 
that  sacrifice  for  none  but  for  Guido.  Otto,  German  to 
the  backbone,  required  a  strong  personal  motive  for  any 
sacrifice.  Guido,  in  whom  Russian  mysticism  was  inter- 
bound  with  the  more  masculine  and  masterful  idealism 
which  had  informed  the  Achtundvierziger  in  their  gallant 


244  THE  HYPHEN 

but  hopeless  fight  for  liberty,  had  slipped  into  an  entirely 
unconscious  alignment  with  the  higher  altruism  of  which 
America  is  the  most  uncompromising  and  sincerest  ex 
ponent.  But  every  virtue,  like  every  medal,  has  an  obverse 
side.  Guido,  with  a  mania  for  types  which  was  partly 
human  and  partly  literary,  desired  many  friends  and  made 
friends  easily  and  kept  them  too — many  friends,  let  it  be 
understood,  of  both  sexes.  That  he  loved  Otto  and 
Elschen  best  did  not  keep  him  from  being  excellertt  friends 
with  half  a  dozen  other  boys  and  girls,  nor  did  his  affec 
tion  for  Otto  and  Elschen  blind  him  to  their  peculiarities 
of  character.  And,  lastly,  Guido  was  not  a  born  monogamist 
like  Otto.  He  was  too  sensitive  to  beauty,  too  impression 
able,  too  greatly  fascinated  by  types. 

The  boys,  on  reaching  the  dancing  pavilion,  found  that 
the  orchestra  had  just  arrived.  Amid  the  cacaphony  en 
gendered  by  instruments  in  process  of  attunement,  the 
young  people  were  pairing  off. 

Elschen  Marlow  was  seated  quite  alone,  near  her  father. 

Herr  Pastor  Marlow  was  a  man  of  giant  stature,  with  a 
fine  head  cast  in  a  mold  reminiscent  of  feudal  Germany 
and  of  the  age  of  Albrecht  Duerer.  It  was,  perhaps,  a 
trifle  too  massive  to  be  considered  beautiful  when  judged 
by  modern  standards.  But  its  impressiveness  was  lost  on 
none.  He  was  an  intensely  warm-hearted,  human,  lovable 
man  and  his  parishioners,  young  and  old  alike,  idolized 
him. 

The  Jderr  Pastor  was  engaged  in  entertaining  two  of  the 
pillars  of  his  church,  and  merely  nodded  to  the  boys,  with 
a  hearty,  interpolated  "Guten  Tag,  Jungens,"  as  they 
passed  him. 

Otto  was  a  communicant  of  his  church.  Guido,  for  a 
short  time  had  gone  with  Otto  to  Sunday  school,  but  he 
had  tired  of  it  and  had  asked  his  mother  to  be  allowed 
to  stop  going.  It  had  been  a  severe  blow  to  Frau  Ursula. 
Dr.  Koenig  had  chuckled  over  her  a  little,  but  mindful  of 
her  disappointment,  had  not  chuckled  overmuch. 

Elschen,  the  picture  of  virginal  sweetness  and  purity, 
hands  clasped  in  lap,  greeted  the  boys  with  demure  shy 
ness.  She  retained  all  the  old-world,  cloistral  charm 
which  in  her  childhood  had  set  her  apart  as  a  creature 
unique  and  undescribably  precious.  Hers  was  the  charm 


YOUTH  245 

of  a  flower  which  had  blossomed  in  a  walled-in,  brick- 
walked  garden,  secure  from  vulgar  eyes,  but  flooded  with 
sunlight  and  open  to  the  blue  sky.  She  was  the  incarna 
tion  of  a  past  generation's  conception  or  maidenlikeness — 
sincere,  demure,  too  innocent  for  coquetry  and  as  direct 
and  as  simple  as  a  child  or  a  savage. 

"Well,  Elschen,"  Otto  said  in  German,  "I  hope  you  have 
saved  us  one  or  two  dances." 

Otto's  opening  sentences  in  addressing  Elschen  always 
included  Guido.  He  seemed  to  derive  an  intense  comfort 
from  this  inclusion  of  Guido,  just  as  in  approaching 
Elschen  he  always  required  his  friend's  supporting  pres 
ence.  A  little  later,  when  conversation  was  well  under 
way,  Guido  was  expected  to  eliminate  himself,  which, 
Guido,  with  the  greatest  complacency,  invariably  did. 

"I  have  not  disposed  of  any  of  my  dances,"  Elschen 
replied,  in  her  sweet,  girlish  staccato.  "I  do  not  like  to 
dance  with  a  lot  of  different  boys  the  way  some  girls  do." 

"But  you  won't  mind  dancing  with  me,  will  you, 
Elschen?"  Otto  inquired,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  no.  Do  you  not  see?  I  saved  all  my  dances,  all 
of  them,  for  you  and  for  Guido." 

As  the  young  girl  pronounced  Guide's  name,  she  lifted 
her  eyes  to  his  face.  The  beautiful  blue  eyes  were  swim 
ming  in  a  humid  mist,  but  not  knowing  that  there  was 
anything  to  hide,  she  made  no  effort  to  conceal  their 
message. 

Guido  caught  sight  of  Otto's  face  and  the  pain  mir 
rored  there,  and  said,  hastily: 

"Elschen,  it's  awfully  sweet  of  you.  But  you  know  I 
cannot  dance — doctor's  orders — I  do  not  even  know  how." 

Elschen,  innocent,  direct,  artless  child,  replied : 

"Sometimes  a  boy  and  a  girl  sit  out  a  dance  and  talk." 

"Ah !"  Poor  Guido  was  hard  set  to.  But  another  glance 
at  Otto's  face  made  him  marshal  his  wits  for  a  supreme 
effort.  He  said,  quickly: 

"Yes,  of  course.  But  you  are  so  fond  of  dancing, 
Elschen,  and  so  is  Otto,  that  it  would  be  very  selfish  of 
me  to  let  you  sit  out  a  dance  with  me.  I  couldn't  think 
of  it."  He  rattled  on,  fearful  lest  Elschen  compromise 
herself  further.  "So  I'm  going  to  leave  you  two  together 


246  THE  HYPHEN 

to  have  a  good  time  by  yourself,  and  I'll  go  walk  off  my 
disgust  so  as  not  to  play  dog  in  the  manger." 

Lifting  his  hat,  he  hastily  walked  away. 

A  little  further  on  he  stopped  to  chat  with  Mrs.  Thorn 
ton,  now  Mrs.  Erdman,  who  to  Guido's  mind,  had  lost 
none  of  her  exotic  unhyphenated  charm  through  her 
change  in  name.  He  adored  her  and  her  slim  and  sprightly 
elegance  and  tender  soft  ways  as  much  as  ever. 

She  saw  him  first  and  called  to  him: 

"Foster-son!  Are  you  trying  to  cut  me?  You  sha'n't 
succeed." 

"Mrs.  Thornton,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Erdman — I 
render  a  double  apology  for  the  double  break.  How's  my 
foster  brother?" 

He  bent  toward  the  two-year-old  scion  of  the  house  of 
Erdman  and  made  as  to  lift  the  child.  Mrs.  Erdman  gently 
resisted  him. 

"He's  much  too  heavy,"  she  said,  in  an  undertone. 
"Your  back!" 

"Bother  my  back,"  said  Guido  crossly.  "You  have  no 
idea  what  nuisance  it  is  to  forever  think  about  it." 

"I'm  afraid  it  would  be  more  of  a  nuisance  if  you 
didn't,"  Mrs.  Erdman  replied,  succinctly. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so." 

Guido  played  a  few  minutes  with  the  baby,  which  was 
the  prodigy  of  infant  charm  and  intelligence  that  first 
born  children  always  are;  then,  as  other  friends  claimed 
Mrs.  Erdman,  he  bowed  and  left  her. 

He  found  a  bench  by  the  side  of  the  stream  and  sat 
there  the  balance  of  the  afternoon  reading  Macaulay's 
"Machiavelli."  Macaulay's  style  exerted  a  tremendous 
fascination  upon  Guido,  and  he  read  on  unmindful  of 
the  shadows  which  finally  began  to  creep  up  from  the 
banks  of  the  stream.  Suddenly  he  realized  that  it  was 
getting  late,  very  late.  He  closed  the  book  with  a  sigh, 
and  starting  to  his  feet  chose  a  circuitious  route  back  to 
the  pavilion  the  better  to -enjoy  the  glorious  twilight  which 
was  succeeding  a  perfect  day. 

This  roundabout  way  led  past  an  old  building  usually 
referred  to  as  the  Castle.  It  had,  in  its  day,  been  a  very 
splendid  mansion  indeed.  But  now  its  gargoyles  were 
crumbling,  its  cornices  falling,  its  stones  slipping,  its  roof 


YOUTH  247 

sagging,  its  coping  dragging.  The  large  terrace  which  ran 
along  its  front  was  still  tolerably  intact,  although  the 
fountain  which  stood  in  the  center  of  its  tesselated  pave 
ment  had  long  since  run  dry. 

The  mansion  was  not  occupied.  The  lower  floor  had  been 
closed  off  long  ago  and  was  entirely  out  of  repair,  but  the 
main  room  in  the  second  story  was  still  open  to  the  public. 
It  had  constituted  the  ancient  glory  of  the  building  and 
was,  indeed,  the  reason  why  the  mansion  had  not  been 
pulled  down  long  ago. 

This  room,  which  occupied  virtually  the  entire  length  and 
breadth  of  the  building,  since  only  the  stairway  and  a  small 
hat  and  cloak-room  encroached  upon  its  area,  was  the 
library. 

It  was  a  room  that  suggested  high  ideals,  fine  and 
splendid  thinking  and  heroic  deeds.  All  the  woodwork  in 
the  room  and  the  furniture  as  well  consisted  of  hand- 
carved  black  walnut,  the  wood  which  had  its  heydey  in 
the  Victorian  era  and  which  has  fallen  into  disuse  among 
furniture  makers  for  no  other  reason  than  that  it  is  not 
obtainable  at  the  present  time.  The  chair  and  divans  were 
upholstered  in  cream-colored  brocade  and  the  hangings 
matched  the  chairs. 

But  the  really  noteworthy  feature  of  the  room,  the 
feature  which  had  made  the  Castle  famous  throughout  the 
country,  was  the  arrangement  of  all  it  contained — books, 
furniture,  paintings,  statuary  and  old  tapestries.  The  book 
cases  were  surmounted  by  the  busts  of  the  authors  whose 
works  reposed  in  the  shelves  beneath,  and  these  effigies 
were  marble  copies  in  miniature  of  portrait  busts  made  by 
famous  sculptors.  This  collection  of  statuary  was  said 
to  be  unique.  A  gallery  ran  above  the  first  tier  of  book 
cases  and  statuary,  commanding  acess  to  a  second  relay 
of  authors,  and  above  the  second  tier  beautiful  old  tapes 
tries,  Persian  rugs,  banners  and  flags,  alternating  with 
enormous  canvases  were  outspread  against  the  walls. 

Guido  loved  the  beautiful  old  room  with  its  faded  hang 
ings  and  wonderful  old  furniture  and  he  chid  himself  now 
for  having  neglected  to  visit  it  to-day. 

He  leaned  against  the  enormous  trunk  of  a  three- 
century-old  English  elm,  and  regarded  the  old  mansion, 
glorying  in  its  elusive  charm  and  its  haunting  loveliness. 


248  THE  HYPHEN 

There  was  to  him  something  infinitely  pathetic  in  all  this 
decaying  splendor.  He  thought  of  the  lives  that  had  been 
spent  under  the  now  senile  roof,  of  the  children  who  had 
played  on  the  spacious  terrace  and  about  the  fountain 
which  had  now  run  dry.  He  thought  of  those  same 
children,  grown  to  man  and  womanhood,  and  how  they 
had  danced  and  made  merry  in  the  Library,  turned  into 
a  ball-room  on  such  occasions.  He  thought  of  the  births 
and  the  marriages  and  the  deaths  which  had  taken  place 
in  those  rooms,  and  he  was  seized  with  a  species  of 
vicarious  nostalgia  in  which  all  the  sorrows,  joys,  hopes, 
disappointments  and  anxieties  of  those  alien  lives,  of  which 
he  knew  nothing,  seemed  to  merge  and  cry  for  utterance. 

He  changed  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  and  then — all 
his  faculties  congealed  into  the  one  sense  of  hearing. 

He  thought  that  he  had  heard  a  voice,  a  young,  agree 
able,  feminine  voice,  calling.  For  a  minute  he  thought 
that  he  had  been  deceived  and  that  some  aural  specter  of 
the  past  had  come  to  mock  him.  Then,  clearly,  poignantly 
and  yet  without  a  note  of  shrillness,  the  voice  called  once 
more  out  of  the  gathering  dusk  which  enmeshed  the  Castle. 

"If  there  is  anyone  under  those  trees,  I  wish  he  or  she 
would  come  up  on  the  terrace.  I'm  locked  in  and  I  can't 
oret  out." 

There   is    something   subtly    stirring   about   an   invisible 

"ce,  and  this  voice  held  the  promise  of  youth,  of  refine 
ment,  of  femininity;  and,  coming  as  it  did  out  of  the 
shadowed  recesses  of  the  huge  pile  of  crumbling  stone, 
it  stimulated  our  hero's  imagination  quite  uncommonly. 

Repressing  a  hysterical  desire  to  laugh,  Guido  obeyed 
the  voice  with  alacrity.  From  the  terrace  he  could  glimpse 
the  owner  of  the  voice.  She  was  standing  at  one  of  the 
tall,  broad  windows  of  the  library.  The  cream-colored 
hangings  had  closed  behind  her,  and  drew  upon  themselves 
the  sun's  last  fitful  burst  of  glory,  so  that  the  girl  was 
silhouetted  as  against  a  shining  panel.  She  was  radiant 
with  youth  and  with  health  and  such  beauty  as  he  had 
never  looked  upon  before.  Her  image  smote  upon  the 
boy's  sense  like  a  chord  in  the  major  key — triumphantly, 
exquisitely,  brilliantly.  Her  vision  had  come  to  him  like 
a  bolt  of  lightning,  like  the  rush  of  a  cascade,  like  a  burst 
of  song  from  an  unseen  bird's  throat.  He  saw  presently, 


YOUTH  249 

when  his  vision  cleared,  that  her  hair  was  dark  and  her 
eyes  were  dark.  She  wore  her  hair  parted  above  a  low 
forehead,  a  mode  which  gave  her  narrow  but  exquisitely 
modeled  face  a  madonna-like  appearance.  Her  delicately 
coral-pink  lips  were  arched,  Cupid-fashion.  Her  skin  was 
very  white,  her  cheeks  tinted  like  a  blush-rose.  It  was  a 
complexion  most  unusual  to  be  paired  with  eyes  and  hair 
as  dark  as  hers — for  both  were  almost  black — speaking  of 
pure  northern  ancestry. 

All  these  facts  concerning  the  young  lady  who  had  sum 
moned  him  to  her  assistance  so  unceremoniously — roman 
tically,  our  hero  termed  it — Guido  had  absorbed  as  quickly 
and  as  unconsciously  as  the  pores  absorb  moisture  in 
bathing. 

"What's  up?"  he  demanded,  employing  words  which,  as 
he  was  painfully  aware,  were  horribly  inadequate  to  the 
occasion.  He  was  burning  to  recite  Romeo's  farewell, 
though,  of  course,  a  farewell  speech  would  neither  be 
appropriate  to  the  occasion  nor  desired  by  himself. 

"I  can't  get  out,"  said  the  girl,  plaintively.  "They've 
locked  the  door  to  the  stairway  and  I'm  afraid  to  risk 
jumping  out  of  the  window.  It  must  be  twenty  feet  at 
least,  and  the  terrace  looks  hard." 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Guido,  "that,  like  Prince  Arthur,  you 
might  have  regretted  that  twenty-foot  leap  if  you  had 
risked  it." 

The  girl  looked  startled,  almost  frightened,  but  nothing 
could  stop  him  now.  The  Shakespeare  mood  was  upon 
him.  He  might  die  for  it,  but  for  sheer  joy  in  the  lines 
he  must  spout  at  least  a  few  words  from  the  "Great  Im 
mortal"  : 

"Ah  me!    My  uncle's  spirit  is  in  these  stones, 
Heaven  take  my  soul,  and  England  keep  my  bones." 

The  girl's  amazement  had  given  way  to  perplexity  and 
uncertainty.  For  one  moment  Guido  thought  that  she  was 
a  stranger  to  those  lines,  but  her  next  words  shattered 
that  misconception. 

"I  think  we'd  better  not  have  a  Shakespeare  recitation 
just  now,"  she  said,  nervously. 


THE  HYPHEN 

"No,  of  course  not.  Didn't  you  hear  the  five  o'clock 
bell?" 

"Of  course  I  heard  it.  I'm  not  deaf.  But  I  paid  no 
attention  to  it.  Of  course  I  should  have.  Bells  at  five 
o'clock  in  a  place  like  this  are  always  an  invitation  to  efface 
oneself  as  speedily  as  possible.  The  truth  is — well — I  was 
completely  fascinated " 

She  stopped,  embarrassment  visible  in  every  feature. 

"Fascinated  by  what?" 

"Look  here,  I'll  answer  all  questions  later  on.  All  you 
care  to  ask.  But — won't  you  please  try  and  get  me  out 
of  this  fortress  now?" 

"Fortress !"    Guido  laughed  in  appreciation  of  the  word. 

"Please  hurry,"  said  the  girl.  "A  family  of  mice  is 
playing  tag  right  back  of  me  and  one  skittish  member  of 
the  family  has  twice  mistaken  my  foot  for  a  hurdle  or 
a  stile.  I  beg  of  you  to  make  haste." 

"I'll  have  you  out  of  here  in  a  jiffy,"  said  Guido,  and 
did  not  move.  The  magic  that  dwelt  in  that  lovely  face 
held  him  rooted  to  the  spot.  He  felt  that  if  he  removed 
his  eyes  from  the  girl  for  one  moment  she  would  vanish 
away  into  nothing. 

"There's  a  ladder  at  the  side  of  the  terrace,"  said  the 
girl.  "I  think  it's  tall  enough  to  reach  this  window.  Per 
haps  you  can  carry  it  up  here,  and  stand  it  up  against 
the  wall.  I'm  a  gym  girl,  and  I'll  be  able  to  manage 
nicely." 

Guido  went  in  search  of  the  ladder  and  found  it.  It 
was  an  ordinary  rung  ladder  which  had  been  used  by 
workmen  during  the  day.  Otto  or  Stan,  or  even  Egon, 
could  easily  have  lifted  it  and  dragged  it  onto  the  terrace. 
He,  however,  could  barely  lift  it  three  feet  from  the 
ground.  A  severe  twinge  in  his  back  warned  him  against 
an  imprudent  exertion.  He  let  the  end  of  the  ladder  he 
had  lifted  drop  with  a  sharp  crack. 

Crestfallen  he  returned  to  the  terrace. 

"I'm  afraid  I  won't  be  able  to  manage  it  alone,"  he  said. 

The  girl  frowned.  Twilight  was  deepening,  but  he 
could  discern  the  expression  of  the  lovely  face  and  it  was 
compact  of  disdain  and  disapproval. 

"Perhaps,  then,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  chill  and 
distant,  "if  not  asking  too  much,  you  could  manage  to  go 


YOUTH  251 

to  the  pavilion  and  find  my  father.  His  name  is  Geddes, 
Professor  Edward  Geddes.  Have  him  paged  if  neces 
sary." 

Guido  blushed  hotly.  To  be  visited  undeservedly  with 
the  contempt  of  this  divine  creature  was  a  sort  tribula 
tion.  His  accursed  back,  of  course,  had  won  him  her  con 
tempt.  He  controlled  his  emotion  with  difficulty,  and  said: 

"I  can  do  as  you  suggest,  of  course.  But  it  will  take 
me  at  least  half  an  hour  to  go  to  the  Pavilion,  and  find 
Professor  Geddes  and  bring  him  back  here.  And  it  may 
take  longer.  It  will  take  me  only  ten  minutes  to  fetch 
the  watchman  from  the  Lodge.  Will  you  not  trust  me 
to  do  that?" 

The  girl  seemed  considerably  placated. 

"I'll  be  very  grateful  to  you  for  doing  that,"  she  said. 

In  less  than  ten  minutes  Guido  had  returned  with  the 
watchman,  and  prison  doors  had  swung  wide  for  Miss 
Geddes.  Guido,  in  one  corner  of  the  terrace,  had  peeled 
a  two-dollar  bill,  the  smallest  he  had,  from  a  comfortable 
roll  of  bills.  As  the  watchman  emerged  from  the  door 
of  the  building  and  locked  it,  Guido  deftly  slipped  it  to 
him.  The  man  touched  his  cap  to  him  and  thanked  him. 
The  girl  had  seen  this  by-play  and  again  her  manner  and 
expression  changed.  She  seemed  to  contract  within  her 
self,  as  if  self -contraction  would  widen  the  distance  be 
tween  them  as  they  walked  silently  through  the  dark  woods 
into  which  shafts  of  moonlight  were  beginning  to  filter. 

As  they  walked  along  she  was  saying  to  herself: 
"Wouldn't  soil  his  delicate  fingers  with  a  smeary,  smelly 
workingman's  ladder.  Or,  perhaps  he  wanted  me  to  know 
that  he's  well  supplied  with  funds.  As  if  I  cared!"  She 
was  saying  these  unamiable  things  about  Guido  to  herself, 
not  because  she  believed  them  but  because  she  was  enraged 
with  herself  for  not  disliking  him  as  much  as  she  felt  she 
should  have  disliked  him  in  view  of  his  sissified  refusal 
to  get  her  the  ladder. 

The  silence  in  which  they  trudged  along,  he  touching 
her  elbow  now  and  then  with  nervous  fingers  to  prevent 
her  from  falling,  became  insufferable  to  the  girl.  She 
began  to  speak  literally  in  ignorance  of  what  she  was  going 
to  say,  knowing  only  that  she  desired  to  say  nothing 
pleasant,  realizing  that  she  must  say  nothing  unpleasant. 


252  THE  HYPHEN 

"It  was  fortunate  for  me  that  you  fancy  solitary  strolls 
in  the  dark,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  that  I'm  awfully  fond  of  traipsing 
about  alone  in  the  dark,"  Guido  replied,  "but  my  friend 
is  dancing  in  the  pavilion  and  so  I  was  thrown  upon  my 
own  resources." 

A  few  words  spoken  at  random  may  have  cataclysmic 
effects.  Guide's  innocent  reply  produced  an  extraordinary 
effect  on  Miss  Geddes.  Usually  a  very  self-controlled  girl, 
she  had  been  considerably  ruffled  by  Guido's  behavior 
from  the  very  start.  She  chose  to  justify  her  agitation, 
which  it  pleased  her  to  regard  as  unpleasant,  by  assuring 
herself  with  a  degree  of  violence  foreign  to  her  nature 
that  her  rescuer  was  everything  that  a  rescuer  should  not 
be.  His  last  remark  she  subjected  to  a  cruel  analysis. 
Guido,  of  course,  had  referred  to  Otto  in  speaking  of  his 
friend,  unconsciously  ignoring  the  fact  that  through  usage 
a  definite  significance — not  platonic — accrues  to  this  word 
of  all  work,  when  preceded  by  the  personal  pronoun,  first 
person,  singular.  Miss  Geddes  can  scarcely  be  blamed  for 
attaching  this  meaning  to  Guido's  pronominal  phrase. 

"He  needn't  have  dragged  that  in,"  she  thought.  "Even 
if  he  is  the  handsomest  thing  that  ever  happened,  he 
needn't  think  that  every  girl  he  meets  is  going  to  fall  in 
love  with  him  right  off.  But  then,  how  can  he  help  being 
conceited,  poor  thing?  No  male  creature  has  any  business 
to  be  as  good-looking  as  he  is.  It's  not  fair.  He  ought 
to  be  put  in  a  cage  and  not  allowed  at  large." 

Thus  communed  Miss  Geddes  with  herself.  She  was, 
it  will  be  observed,  a  somewhat  precocious  young  lady 
for  her  years,  for  she  was  just  about  the  same  age  as 
Guido.  Her  fury  might  have  seemed  somewhat  forced, 
somewhat  assumed,  to  the  trained  psychologist.  At  any 
rate,  as  she  half -walked,  half -stumbled  along  over  some 
gnarled  roots  and  was  saved  from  an  imminent  fall  by 
the  despised  rescuer's  timely  aid,  a  different  viewpoint 
presented  itself  for  her  inspection.  Possibly  her  shaking-up 
had  jounced  it  from  out  her  finer  perceptions ;  possibly, 
also,  the  touch  of  the  boy's  fingers  against  her  arm,  so 
delicate,  so  nervously  proper,  so  swiftly,  almost  auto 
matically  self -releasing,  called  a  halt  to  her  unjust  thoughts. 
It  seemed  to  her  now  nobly  magnanimous  that  he  did  not 


YOUTH  253 

object  to  his  "friend's"  dancing  when — for  some  reason — 
he  was  not  participating. 

Miss  Geddes  had  a  fair  share  of  the  healthy  curiosity 
which  inheres  in  all  daughters  of  Eve. 

"It's  rather  nice  of  you  not  to  object  to  your  friend's 
having  a  good  time  without  you,"  she  said. 

Guido  thought  the  remark  odd,  but  was  untouched  by 
the  remotest  of  suspicions  touching  its  cause. 

"Why  not?"  he  remarked.  "He's  awfully  fond  of  it, 
and  I — well,  I  don't  dance,  you  see." 

The  anticlimax  of  that  "he"  almost  caused  the  young 
lady  to  laugh  aloud.  The  darkness  hid  the  smile  that 
broadened  the  high-bred,  narrow  face.  Dejection  had  sud 
denly  changed  to  hopefulness — hopefulness  or  what  she 
did  not  inquire  of  herself — and  she  suspected  the  possi 
bility  of  a  still  higher  rise  in  the  barometer  of  her  moods 
if  only  his  unwillingness  to  handle  the  ladder  could  be 
satisfactorily  explained.  With  such  rapid  strides  had  her 
faith  in  him  progressed,  she  took  it  for  granted  now  that 
a  satisfactory  explanation  was  possible.  The  truth  is  this 
low-browed,  madonna-visaged  Diana  was  very  eager  to 
have  no  reason  for  entertaining  disapproval  of  her  Romeo 
— to  like  where  she  did  not  respect  was  such  a  novel 
sensation. 

"I'm  afraid  it  was  thoughtless  of  me  to  ask  you  to 
bring  that  heavy  ladder  up  onto  the  terrace,"  she  said, 
with  crafty  intent. 

"It  wasn't  so  very  heavy,"  Guido  replied.  "Any  of  my 
friends  could  easily  have  managed  it.  You  see,  I — 

well "  his  voice  blundered  as  well  as  his  words,  and 

she  knew,  although  she  could  not  see,  that  he  was  flushing. 
"You  see,  my  back  isn't  very  strong  and  that's  why  I 
couldn't  lift  the  ladder  and  that's  why  I  cannot  dance. 
I'd  rather  have  you  know  this  about  me  than  think  me — 
well,  I  don't  know  what." 

Miss  Geddes  was  deeply  moved.  Hers  was  a  generous 
nature  and  might  be  relied  upon  to  do  abundant  penance. 

"I'm  glad  you  told  me,"  she  said.  This  she  felt  to  be 
insufficient,  and  she  added,  after  a  moment :  "I  confess 
I  was  surprised  at  your  inability  to  fetch  the  ladder." 

"Then  why,"  said  downright  Guido,  "did  you  not  ask 


254  THE  HYPHEN 

me  right  out?  Why  did  you  profess  thoughtlessness  in 
asking  me  to  fetch  it?" 

Miss  Geddes  laughed.  She  laughed  long  and  happily. 
It  was  a  delicious,  infectious,  throaty  sort  of  laugh.  She 
could  not  imagine  any  other  boy  of  her  acquaintance  trip 
ping  her  up  like  that;  they  would  have  lacked  the  wit  or 
the  courage  or  both.  Oh,  he  was  deliciously  straight 
forward  and  honest ! 

"I  was  coming  to  that,"  she  said.  "If  you'd  given  me 
time.  I  suppose  I'll  just  have  to  'fess  up  now.  I'd  been 
unjust  to  you  in  thought,  so  I — you  know  what's  called 
pumping — well,  I  just  pumped  you." 

It  was  Guide's  turn  to  laugh.  He  laughed  not  as  she 
had  done  in  a  long,  joyous,  contented  stretch,  but  inter 
mittently,  amusedly,  almost  spasmodically  as  various 
aspects  of  their  brief  acquaintanceship  struck  him.  He 
had  never  met  anyone  who  had  so  tittilating  an  effect  upon 
his  mind,  who  so  garnered  in  all  his  admiration.  He  was 
unaware  that  his  heart  as  well  as  his  mind  was  undergoing 
stimulation. 

Miss  Geddes,  however,  did  not  capitulate  entirely.  She 
reserved  final  abasement  of  spirit  until  the  interview  with 
her  father  should  have  taken  place.  For  she  insisted  that 
her  father  must  thank  her  rescuer.  There  was  also  the 
matter  of  the  money  which  he  had  disbursed,  and  which 
troubled  her  because  she  hardly  knew  how  to  approach  it. 

They  had  some  difficulty  in  making  their  way  through 
the  dancers  and  along  the  line  of  tables  arranged  along 
the  edge  of  the  hall. 

"There,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "there's  my  dad.  All  alone. 
If  that  isn't  just  like  him!  But  having  a  glorious  time." 

Guido  followed  the  direction  of  the  girl's  eyes.  It 
seemed  hardly  possible  that  the  gentleman  whom  she  thus 
indicated  should  be  her  father,  he  was  so  very  young,  so 
very,  very  boyish-looking.  He  was  tall  and  slender,  with  the 
figure  of  a  man  of  thirty.  His  brown  hair  was  remarkably 
heavy,  a  perennial  smile  hovered  in  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  and  his  eyes  were  hazel. 

"Daddy,"  the  girl  flew  to  him  like  a  child,  "Daddy,  I 
was  locked  up." 

"Locked    up!"    exclaimed    Professor    Geddes.      "Good 


YOUTH  255 

heavens,  a  daughter  of  mine!  Locked  up.  You  surprise 
me,  my  dear.  And  what  had  you  done?" 

For  a  moment  Guido  was  considerably  taken  aback  by 
this  swift  exchange  of  words.  Then,  as  father  and 
daughter  burst  out  laughing  simultaneously,  he  compre 
hended.  They  were  first-rate  friends,  these  two.  They 
were  such  good  pals  and  felt  such  a  wealth  of  affection 
and  trust  for  each  other  that  they  teased  each  other  out 
rageously  when  occasion  offered,  hiding  the  gentler  emo 
tions  under  a  whimsical  mask  which,  to  the  casual  on 
looker,  at  first  might  prove  a  little  disconcerting. 

"Of  my  offense  later.  Meanwhile,  Daddy,  seriously, 
quite,  quite  seriously,  I  don't  know  what  I  would  have 
done  if  Mr. — Mr. — oh,  would  you  mind  awf'lly  telling  me 
your  name?" 

Guido  gave  his  name. 

"That,"  thought  the  girl  as  she  heard  the  German  name, 
"explains  the  'my  friend'  and  the  slurring  of  some  syllables 
and  the  over-pronunciation  of  others."  She  said,  forget 
ting  that  she  had  said  "quite,  quite  seriously"  only  a 
moment  before,  "Mr.  Hauser  bailed  me  out,  Daddy.  So 
please  thank  him  properly." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  infinitely  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Hauser," 
said  Professor  Geddes,  "although,  to  be  perfectly  candid, 
I  haven't  i:he  least  notion  what  I  am  thanking  you  for." 

"For  nothing,"  said  Guido,  audaciously  falling  in  with 
their  spirit,  "for  less  than  nothing,  sir,  and  yet  for  more." 

"  'Lysander  riddles  very  prettily/  "  Professor  Geddes  re 
marked,  eyes  twinkling. 

"Then  must  Lysander  unriddle,"  said  Guido,  laughing. 
"You  are  thanking  me  for  less  than  nothing  because  what 
I  accomplished  required  neither  wit,  brawn  nor  courage. 
You  are  thanking  me  for  more  than  nothing,  because  the 
little  which  it  was  my  privilege  to  do  gave  me  great 
pleasure." 

"Bravo,"  cried  Professor  Geddes.  "If  you  don't  mind 
my  saying  so,  I  predict  that  you  will  be  either  a  writer 
of  stories  or  a  seller  of  gold-bricks.  And  now,  will  you 
not  tell  me  from  what  dreadful  fate  you  preserved  my 
daughter  ?" 

Guido  related  what  had  occurred  as  briefly  as  possible, 
omitting  his  abortive  attempt  to  procure  the  ladder.  Pro- 


256  THE  HYPHEN 

fessor  Geddes  listened  attentively  and  with  growing 
gravity. 

"That  was  an  awkward  situation  for  Janet  to  find  her 
self  in,"  he  said.  "It  might  have  been  very  awkward, 
indeed,  if  you  hadn't  turned  up.  She  left  the  building 
with  me.  I  should  never  have  thought  of  looking  for  her 
there." 

"I  went  back,  Daddy,  but  you  didn't  notice,"  said  Janet, 
quite  meekly. 

"If  I  hadn't  turned  up,  some  one  else  would  have," 
said  Guido,  airily. 

Was  there  ever  a  sweeter,  cleaner,  saner  name  than 
Janet?  To  the  lad's  intoxicated  vision  it  seemed  like  the 
murmur  of  a  brook,  with  all  a  brook's  suggested  whole- 
someness  and  purity. 

"And  why,  pray,  did  you  return  to  the  Castle?"  the 
Professor  asked. 

"To  the  Library,"  Janet  corrected  him  gently.  "I  was 
fascinated." 

"Fascinated?"  Humorously  lifting  his  eyebrows,  Pro 
fessor  Geddes  pronounced  the  word  with  a  whimsical  slow 
ness  that  dragged  it  out  to  thrice  its  length. 

"What  fascinated  you?"  Guido  asked. 

"I  cannot  tell." 

"But  you  promised  to,  you  know." 

"Did  I  ?    So  I  did.    Well  then,  I  shall  have  to  tell." 

Guido  perceived  that  she  was  not  merely  making  a  great 
mystery  over  nothing,  after  the  tantalizing  fashion  of  girls, 
but  that  she  had  a  reason,  real  enough  to  herself,  for  not 
wishing  to  divulge  the  nature  of  the  magnet  that  had  drawn 
her  back  to  the  beautiful  old  room.  She  was  hesitating 
over  her  reply.  Too  honest  to  lie,  she  was  nerving  herself 
to  redeem  her  promise. 

"You  needn't  tell  if  you  don't  like,"  said  Guido,  quickly, 
wishing  to  be  chivalrous.  But  the  girl  flung  back,  a  chal 
lenge  in  her  voice: 

"Of  course  I  am  going  to  tell.  I  went  back  because 
there  was  a  beautiful  old  volume  of  Shakespeare  which 
I  wanted  to  look  at  carefully.  And  I  began  to  read,  fool 
ishly.  And  became  engrossed,  more  foolishly  still.  And 
the  play  I  read  was  King  John." 

What  a  coincidence!     So  that  was  why  she  had  been 


YOUTH  257 

so  reluctant  to  speak  of  her  reading.  It  really  was  dis 
concerting.  It  made  one  feel  afraid.  Panic  came  to  his 
eyes,  and  a  deep,  scorching,  burning  red  mounted  slowly, 
heavily  to  his  cheeks.  Simultaneously  the  girl's  face  turned 
scarlet.  Confusion  worse  confounded  Professor  Geddes 
had  never  seen.  The  excellent  man  was  both  amused  and 
dismayed.  What  scrupulous  parent  would  not  be  dis 
mayed  to  see  his  daughter,  carefully  reared  and  guarded, 
hoist  the  crimson  badge  of  shame  to  her  cheek  , thereby 
convicting  herself  of  being  the  fellow  galley-slave  of  a 
strange  young  man  concerning  whom  he  had  no  knowledge 
save  that  he  was  comely  of  person,  very  evidently  well-to- 
do,  quick  at  repartee  and  obliging  to  beauty  in  distress — 
all  traits  which  the  notorious  Lotharios  of  history  and 
fiction  have  possessed  in  a  preeminent  degree? 

Convention,  meanwhile,  required  that  the  two  galley- 
slaves  be  rescued  from  their  embarrassment,  which  seemed 
to  be  eating  into  their  very  marrow. 

"  'All's  well  that  ends  well/ "  said  Professor  Geddes. 
"How  fond  we  all  are  of  plagiarizing  from  the  Great  Bard. 
That  is  so,  no  doubt,  because  Shakesperian  scholars  find  that 
every  contingency  of  life,  of  thought,  of  feeling  can  be 
better  described  by  quoting  from  the  Folio  pages  than  by 
original  comments.  Mr.  Hauser,  you'll  join  us  in  a  salad 
and  ice-cream,  won't  you?" 

Guido  glanced  guiltily  at  Janet.  The  crimson  tide  was 
slowly  receding  from  her  cheek.  Perceiving  that  his 
glance  was  one  of  interrogation,  Miss  Geddes  said: 

"Do." 

As  the  monosyllable  expressed  no  very  acute  desire  for 
his  society,  he  felt  constrained  to  say,  dubiously: 

"I  should  like  to  awf'lly." 

"Good,"  said  Professor  Geddes,  heartily,  "that's  settled. 
Take  a  chair,  won't  you?" 

Guido  took  a  chair,  and  immediately  regretted  the  act, 
for  a  subtle  but  distinct  change  immediately  came  over  Miss 
Geddes.  It  was  not  that  she  was  chilly,  or  distant,  or 
inattentive  to  the  conversation,  in  which  she  bore  quite 
an  animated  part  at  times,  but  she  appeared  to  be  full  of 
unrest,  nervous,  ill  at  ease,  even,  as  if  something  un 
pleasant  was  troubling  her. 

And  so  there  was.     For  she  had  suddenly  remembered 


258  THE  HYPHEN 

the  money  which  Guido  had  tipped  the  night  watchman. 
She  had  no  idea  whether  the  bill  had  been  a  one  or  a 
five-dollar  bill  or  a  bill  of  intermediate  denomination.  Also 
she  did  not  wish  to  offend  this  handsome  boy  by  asking 
her  father  to  refund  what  he  had  disbursed;  on  the  other 
hand,  since  the  expense  had  been  incurred  in  her  behalf, 
common  honesty  required  that  he  should  be  reimbursed. 

She  was  well-bred  and  tactful,  but  she  was  young  and 
her  resources  were  sorely  taxed  to  think  of  some  avenue 
of  approaching  the  sordid  subject. 

Her  father,  meanwhile,  was  telling  Guido  that  he  was 
the  new  Professor  of  History  at  the  Anasquoit  College. 
Janet  heard  the  conversation  as  in  a  dream.  She  was  still 
busy  with  her  little  problem.  When  Guido  finally  rose  to 
go,  she  plucked  up  courage,  and  said: 

"Daddy!" 

"Well,  daughter?" 

"Daddy,  Mr.  Hauser  bailed  me  out." 

"Bailed?    I  do  not " 

"Oh  yes,  you  do.  He  had  to  fetch  a  man,  you  know, 
and  get  him  to  let  down  the  drawbridge  across  the  moat." 

To  Janet's  infinite  relief,  the  Professor  understood  at 
last. 

"Mr.  Hauser,  that  part  of  our  debt  at  least  I  can  cancel." 

"Oh,  sir,  I  beg  of  you!"  cried  Guido,  crimson  again. 

"You  must  tell  me  how  much  I  owe  you,"  said  the  Pro 
fessor,  quietly. 

"Oh,  sir,  really,  really!  If  you  insist,  sir,  I  shall  feel 
that  you  regret  not  being  able  to  cancel  the  balance  of 
your  debt — if  debt  it  be — as  well." 

This  was  more  than  mere  repartee,  more  than  surface 
manners,  more  than  angling  for  a  lady's  favor.  Professor 
Geddes  gravely  slipped  the  purse  back  into  his  pocket.  All 
three  of  the  actors  in  this  little  comedy  were  glad  to  be 
rid  of  its  sight.  It  had  looked  very  big  and  very  ostenta 
tious  and  disgustingly  vulgar  to  all  of  them. 

"I  would  not  cancel  the  balance  of  our  debt  if  I  could, 
Mr.  Hauser,"  said  Professor  Geddes,  with  a  sweetness 
which  seemed  strange  in  a  man.  "There  are  debts  which 
enrich  both  the  debtor  and  the  creditor.  I  hope  you  will 
come  and  see  us.  My  wife  will  be  happy  to  meet  you." 

Guido  left  the  pavilion  treading  on  air.     He  ran  blindly 


YOUTH  259 

into  Otto,  who  had  waited  for  his  friend  for  a  full  half- 
hour.  He,  too,  was  full  of  his  own  affairs,  that  is,  of 
Elschen.  Was  there  another  girl  so  sweet,  so  innocent, 
so  amiable  as  Elschen  Marlow?  Guido  thought  there  was, 
but  wisely  did  not  say  so.  Otto  was  enjoying  his  hyper 
boles  so  thoroughly  that  Guido  had  not  the  heart  to  intrude 
upon  them  with  his  own  thoughts. 

All  the  way  home  Otto  indulged  in  his  monologue. 
Guido  did  not  really  mind.  He  was  thinking  a  monologue 
of  his  own. 

Professor  Geddes  and  Janet  started  for  home  soon  after 
Guido  left  them.  The  moon  had  risen,  the  June  night 
was  balmy  and  sweet  with  the  scent  of  a  thousand  and  one 
herbs,  grasses,  weeds,  flowers  and  trees — sweet  also  with 
the  voice  of  oven-bird  and  Baltimore  oriole,  of  cat-bird 
and  Bob  White,  all  busy  with  their  evening  songs. 

Father  and  daughter  were  woodland  devotees.  The 
crowded  trolley,  swirling  through  dusty  and  unbeautiful 
thoroughfares,  did  not  attract  them.  Janet  suggested  that 
they  walk  home — skirting  along  the  brow  of  the  Palisades 
and  descending  to  sea-level  by  a  flight  of  stairs  which 
abutted  upon  a  forsaken  corner  of  Anasquoit.  From  whence 
they  could  easily  jitney  home.  Professor  Geddes  agreed. 

Janet -slipped  her  arm  through  her  father's,  an  action 
which  he  knew  to  be  a  prelude  to  confidences. 

"Daddy !" 

"Daughter." 

"Daddy,  do  you  like  him?" 

"Him?    Who's  'him?" 

"Daddy,  now  don't  be  silly.  You  do  like  him,  don't 
you  ?" 

"You  do,  evidently." 

"I  want  to  know  if  you  do.  I  want  your  opinion,  your 
definite  opinion.  In  words.  Oh,  my  serene  and  whimsical 
father,  I  knew  by  your  manner  right  along  that  you  do 
not  disapprove." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Daddy,  you  violently  admired." 

"Go  to,  go  to,"  cried  Professor  Geddes,  playfully. 
"Forsooth,  fond  girl,  what  was  there  to  admire  about  the 
stripling,  to  violently  admire?" 

"Daddy,   you   are  so    foolish.     You   liked   the  way  he 


26o  THE  HYPHEN 

stood  up  to  you.  Daddy,  you're  my  dearest  chum  and  pal, 
and  I'll  tell  you  this  in  confidence.  Though  you  are  not 
even  as  old  as  myself  and  the  twinkle  in  your  eye  makes 
you  seem  only  half  that  age,  I  should  hate  to  encounter 
your  gaze  if  my  conscience  were  not  clear.  You  liked  the 
way  that  boy  stood  up  to  you,  you  moral  Samson." 

Professor  Geddes  laughed. 

"The  blush  remains  to  be  explained,  my  lady,"  he  said. 

"Why,  Daddy,  how  very  tactless  to  mention  that.  Daddy, 
I  almost  perished.  There  I'd  been  reading  the  very  lines 
he  threw  at  me  the  first  thing  he  saw  me : 

"Ah  me!  My  uncle's  spirit  is  in  these  stones, 
Heaven  take  my  soul,  and  England  keep  my  bones." 

What  do  you  make  of  that,  Daddy?  Don't  be  silly  and 
tell  me  it  was  a  coincidence.  You  know  it  wasn't.  It  was 
a  telepathic  occurrence,  or  something  of  the  sort.  You 
know  it  was." 

"I'm  beginning  to  think  the  little  blind  boy  has  thrust 
an  arrow  into  my  girl's  heart." 

"How  pedantic  you  are,  Daddykins.  I'm  plumb  crazy 
about  him  of  course." 

"Haven't  I  heard  that  before?    How  often?" 

"Never.    I  never  said  'plumb'  before,  Daddy." 

"H'm." 

"If  I  did,  I  didn't  mean  it." 

"If  you  meant  it  now,  child,  would  you  say  it?" 

"Why  not,  to  you?  To  no  one  else,  Daddy.  Would 
you  have  me  make  confidants  of  girls  I've  met  twice  or 
thrice  instead  of  you,  you  dear  old  Daddy?" 

Professor  Geddes  patted  Janet's  hand  affectionately. 

"Daddy,  say  you  like  him — if  you  do." 

"My  girl,  I  ought  to  know  boys;  I've  taught  them  all 
my  life.  This  one  has  the  making  of  a  fine  man  in  him. 
But " 

^No  'buts,'  Daddy,  surely." 

"But — he  is  congenitally  and  acquiredly " 

"Not  weak,  Daddy,  oh,  surely  not  weak." 

"Sensitive,  daughter.  And  the  unthinking  call  sensitive 
ness  weakness  because  they  judge  of  causes  by  the  effects 


YOUTH  261 

and  the  effects  of  these  two  widely  differing  qualities  are 
only  too  often  identical." 

"Sensitive  to  what,  Daddy?" 

"To  everything.     Beauty." 

"Father!    In  women?" 

"Child!  In  everything — everywhere — sensitiveness  to 
goodness,  sensitiveness  to  evil,  they  lie  in  the  same  chalice." 

"To  evil?     Now,  I  wonder,  just  what  that  can  mean?" 

"To  be  sensitive  to  something  does  not  presuppose  a  liking 
for  that  something.  It  may  mean  abhorrence." 

"Ah !    Go  on." 

"That  boy  is  sensitive  to  every  current  of  life,  thought, 
action.  He  may  at  times — will — find  himself  in  troubled 
waters." 

"But  unmuddied,  Daddy." 

"I  hope  so.     I  think  so." 

"Daddy,  you  like  him  heaps." 

"Heaps,  child?    I  like  him  mountains." 

"Daddykins,  you  are  the  only  and  original  dear.  You 
have  no  idea  how  fine  he  was  coming  home  through  the 
woods.  I  didn't  want  to  like  him  at  first — I  think  I  felt 
I  was  going  to  like  him  so  very  much — so  I  invented 
reasons  for  disliking  him.  But  he  was  so  fine — never 
once  pressed  my  hand  or  squeezed  my  elbow." 

"I  hope  my  daughter  never  allows  young  men  to  press 
her  hand  or  squeeze  her  elbow?" 

The  Professor's  enunciation  of  the  word  "squeeze"  was 
a  homily  in  sex  morality. 

Janet  laughed. 

"Daddy,"  she  protested,  "I've  heard  it  said,  though,  that 
the  habit  is  not  out  of  the  fashion.  And  he  was  so  solemn. 
So  serious,  all  the  way  back.  I  thought  he  had  no  fun 
in  him.  Now  I  know  better.  The  atmosphere  he  wove 
about  me  was  due  to  courtierliness — is  that  a  really  and 
truly  dictionary  word,  Daddy?  And  I  think  him  quite 
perfect." 

"Not  perfect,  Janet.  No  one  is  perfect.  Perfection  is 
an  attribute  of  divinity,  not  of  humanity." 

"Humanly  perfect." 

"You  are  qualifying  a  superlative  with  an  adverb  postu 
lating  limitations." 

"Daddy,  don't  be  didactic.     See  the  moonlight!     Who 


262  THE  HYPHEN 

wants  to  talk  adverbs  and  limitations  with  that  light  shining 
down — on  you,  on  me,  on  him.  HE  wouldn't." 

"He'd  be  guilty  of  the  same  barbarism  as  yourself, 
probably.  He'd  talk  feminine  perfection." 

"Daddy,  are  you  laughing  at  me?" 

"Child,  you  are  so  young — a  mere  baby." 

"I'm  sixteen.  You  were  only  twelve  when  you  saw  my 
mother  the  first  time,  and  you  know  you  boast  of  it  that 
you  never  even  thought  of  any  girl  after  that." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Professor  Geddes.  "How  unwise  of 
a  parent  to  confide  his  own  past  folly  to  his  offspring!  I 
shall  have  to  write  an  essay  warning  other  fathers  and 
mothers." 

Janet  laughed. 

"And  I  don't  want  you  to  say  a  word  to  mother. 
Promise." 

"Promise  nothing  of  the  sort.    Why?" 

"Because  I  overheard  mother  say  one  day  that  no  mother 
thought  any  man  good  enough  for  her  girl  to  love.  And 
I  don't  want  mother  to  hate  him." 

"Well,"  said  her  father,  "we'll  see."  To  any  definite 
promise  he  would  not  commit  himself.  He  was  the  most 
loyal  of  men,  loyal  to  wife,  daughter,  relatives,  pupils  and 
friends,  and  Janet  was  not  unacquainted  with  this  trait  of 
her  father's.  She  thought  that  he  would  have  to  settle  to 
his  own  satisfaction  whether  loyalty  to  his  wife  forbade 
silence  as  to  the  condition  of  his  daughter's  heart,  or 
whether  loyalty  to  his  daughter  would  prohibit  him  from 
communicating  the  intelligence  to  his  wife.  Janet  had  no 
idea  that  the  question  involved  presented  itself  in  a  some 
what  different  form  to  her  father.  Was  Janet's  heart 
seriously  involved — or  would  he  needlessly  alarm  his  wife 
by  taking  her  into  his  confidence? 

While  he  was  still  turning  this  over  in  his  mind,  Janet 
said,  abruptly: 

"You  know,  Daddy,  it's  not  as  if  you'd  found  all  this 
out  by  yourself — then  it  would  be  your  property  to  discuss. 
But  a  priest  never  betrays  the  confessional." 

"You  little  vixen,"  said  the  Professor,  laughing  heartily, 
"I  believe  that's  why  you  told  me  it  all." 

"Shame  on  you,"  said  Janet,  pouting. 

"But  you've  got  me,"  her  father  continued.     "I  cannot 


YOUTH  263 

tell  your  mother,  I  perceive,  without  offending  against  the 
unwritten  code.  However,  if  I  deem  wise,  there  is  nothing 
to  prevent  me  from  contriving  to  let  her  find  out  for 
herself." 

"She'll  probably  do  so  after  a  while  without  your  con 
trivance,"  said  Janet,  coolly. 

"Then,  what  do  you  gain?" 

"Time.  Mother's  bound  to  like  him  after  a  while.  But 
you  know,  she's  less  impulsive  than  you  and  I- -we're  a 
couple  of  willful  children  compared  to  her — we  judge  with 
our  hearts,  she  judges  with  her  head." 

"Your  confidence  in  this  young  man  is  very  great,"  said 
her  father,  reflectively. 

Janet  became  very  serious.  The  lovely  face  wore  a  look 
of  dignified  composure,  as  she  replied: 

"It  is  as  great  as  my  confidence  in  you,  Daddy.  That 
comparison  must  not  hurt  you.  You  have  a  faculty  for 
making  the  real  character  of  those  who  come  in  contact 
with  you  stand  out  sharply.  Mother  once  called  you  a 
catalytic  agent  where  moral  qualities  are  concerned.  You 
act  peculiarly  on  people,  they  show  themselves  as  they 
really  are.  And  for  all  your  lovely  simplicity  of  manner, 
Daddy,  there  are  folks  I  know  who  are  simply  never  at 
ease  with  you — because,  well  never  mind  why.  I  dare  say 
they  know.  Now,  I've  never  seen  any  of  my  friends  so 
perfectly  at  ease  with  you  as  he  was.  And  so,  with 
apologies  to  Kipling: 

"And  my  dear  young  Papa  and  Mister  Hausah, 
They  are  brothers  under  the  skin." 

Professor  Geddes'  mouth  relaxed  with  a  smile. 
"You  little  witch,"  he  said,  but  his  eyes  were  grave. 


CHAPTER  III 

FOLLOWING  the  general  custom  of  the  Anasquoit 
shops,  the  Leviathan  did  not  close  its  doors  on  Satur 
day  night  until  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  owner  of  the  monster 
store  was  the  last  to  leave  at  night  as  he  was  the  first  to 
come  in  the  morning.  He  allowed  himself  as  much  time 
as  he  granted  his  employees,  no  more.  Frau  Ursula  won 
dered  often  and  often — so  often  that  the  reflection  became 
a  sort  of  reflex  action  which  occurred  at  every  meal — 
whether,  if  things  had  fallen  out  differently  between  them, 
he  would  not  have  shown  greater  leniency  to  himself, 
whether  he  would  not  have  lingered  after  his  meals  to 
press  her  hand  or  to  kiss  her  lips. 

For  the  pendulum  of  her  mind  had  swung  back  to  the 
early  days  of  her  marriage.  She  maintained — or  tried  to 
maintain  a  fiction  that  Hauser  had  never  loved  her  and 
that  she  never  loved  him.  Otherwise,  would  he  not  have 
made  some  attempt  at  a  reconciliation?  She  had  given 
him  openings  enough.  But  year  after  year  went  by,  bring 
ing  no  change  in  their  status.  He  was  always  reasonable 
now,  always  kind,  always  generous,  always  thoughtful. 
Since  the  opening  of  the  Leviathan  and  their  removal  to 
the  new  home  which  he  had  built  expressly  for  her,  he 
had  insisted  on  defraying  all  household  expenses.  She 
had  opposed  this  at  first,  but  had  yielded  finally  because 
she  hoped  that  in  paying  him  the  compliment  of  thus 
obligating  her,  he  would  realize  that  she  was  willing  to 
yield  him  infinitely  more  than  the  moiety  for  which  he 
asked  if  only  he  would  ask  of  her  this  greater  yielding. 
For  the  longest  time  she  indulged  in  the  most  pathetic 
hopes.  She  would  stand  at  the  parlor  window  of  her 
large,  beautiful  home,  watching  its  master  run  alertly  down 
the  stoop  and  hoping  that  he  might  turn  back  and  observe 
her  watching  his  departure.  But  he  never  turned.  And 
she  finally  ceased  to  stand  at  the  window.  And  the  years 

264 


YOUTH  265 

went  by,  arid,  wasted  years  which  as  she  felt  might  have 
been  filled  with  throbbing  happiness  for  them  both. 

Not  that  she  was  unhappy.  Guido  was  in  perfect  health, 
and  that  was  happiness  in  itself.  And  she  loved  her  home. 
It  was,  as  Hauser  had  wished  it  to  be,  by  far  the  most 
palatial  residence  of  which  the  town  boasted.  The  garden 
surrounding  it  would  have  been  large  for  the  suburbs. 
Within  city  limits  it  constituted  almost  a  park.  What  with 
her  independent  means  and  the  allowance  her  husband  made 
her,  she  had  more  money  at  her  disposal  than  she  knew 
how  to  spend,  so  that  the  greater  part  of  her  income  flowed 
into  the  coffers  of  the  hospitals  and  public  institutions  of 
the  county. 

Vasalov  had  returned  to  Russia.  She  rarely  thought 
about  him  or  Varvara  Alexandrovna.  The  Synthetic  Ex 
periment  seemed  almost  a  dead  letter.  Dr.  Koenig,  it  is 
true,  helped  to  keep  the  remembrance  of  it  alive.  But  it 
seemed  fantastic,  chimerical  and  unreal.  She  had  come 
to  think  of  it  as  something  with  no  real  significance. 

Dobronov  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  their  home,  and 
week-ended  with  them  at  least  once  a  month.  Longer  than 
two  days  he  would  not  stay,  however.  The  flesh-pots  of 
Egypt  were  delightful,  he  said,  but  enervating.  To  keep 
his  morality  in  tip-top  order  up  he  must  dwell  in  poverty. 
He  cited  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  who  refused  to  accept  as 
an  outright  gift  the  tiny  hospice  in  which  himself  and 
his  followers  found  shelter,  fearing  that  so  valuable  a 
possession  would  work  corruption  of  some  sort  in  their 
midst.  It  was  the  example  of  that  saintly  man,  Dobronov 
appended,  that  had  weaned  him  from  the  Bieguny  doctrine 
that  the  nomadic  life  is  the  only  one  possible  to  virtue  and 
poverty.  For  Dobronov  had  fallen  prey  to  the  charms  of 
New  York.  He  loved  the  vast  city  and  was  happier  in  his 
poor  room  in  the  tenement,  where  he  chose  to  live,  than 
he  had  been  as  the  curled  darling  of  St.  Petersburg 
Society. 

Guido,  on  returning  home  from  the  picnic  on  that  par 
ticular  Saturday  night,  came  blithely  into  the  dining-room. 
Hauser  was  just  rising  from  table.  He  showed  the  wear 
and  tear  of  life.  His  hair  was  now  iron-gray  and  his 
features  had  undergone  the  singular  chastening  process  of 
which  the  secret  is  known  to  time  alone.  He  had  never 


266  THE  HYPHEN 

been  a  handsome  man  and  he  was  not  a  handsome  man 
now.  But  he  was  that  which  is  prized  infinitely  more  by 
women,  he  was  distinguished  looking,  and  he  wielded  an 
air  of  silent  authority  and  masterfulness  habitual  to  the 
successful  man  of  affairs.  The  eyes  of  other  women  ap 
prised  Frau  Ursula  of  the  value  of  her  nominal  possession. 

Hauser  nodded  to  Guido,  and  said : 

"Had  a  good  time?" 

"Glorious,  Father.     Thank  you." 

Long  discipline  had  made  these  two  decently  civil  to 
each  other,  but  the  woman  divined  that  the  old  antagonism 
merely  slumbered  and  was  not  slain. 

"Good-night,  Ursula." 

"Good-night,  Erich." 

He  paused  a  moment  on  the  threshold  to  light  a  cigar. 
Then  his  firm,  elastic  step  was  heard  rapidly  traversing 
the  hall.  The  front  door  opened  and  closed  silently  behind 
him. 

Guido  came  around  to  his  mother's  side  of  the  table  and 
kissed  her. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  bet  you're  glad  this  day  is  over." 

"I  am,"  she  said,  soberly. 

Frau  Ursula  had  entertained  that  afternoon.  She  had 
given  a  "coffee,"  a  form  of  relaxation  very  dear  to  the 
feminine  Teutonic  heart.  To  accommodate  all  her  guests, 
the  dining-room  table  had  been  extended  to  an  abnormal, 
unshapely  length.  Enough  time  had  not  intervened  be 
tween  the  departure  of  the  last  guest  and  the  arrival  of  the 
master  of  the  house  to  perform  amputation  upon  the  un 
natural  length  of  the  monstrosity. 

Hauser  and  his  wife  had  supped  at  one  end  of  the 
table,  but  the  other  end  was  by  no  means  unfurnished. 
It  was  adorned  with  the  remainder  of  the  afternoon's 
repast,  cakes  of  every  description,  cakes  large  and  cakes 
small,  layer-cakes  and  cakes  with  cream-filling  and  cakes 
that  were  stuck  together  with  jelly,  cakes  frosted  with  pink, 
and  cakes  frosted  with  brown  and  cakes  frosted  with  white  ; 
cakes  plain  at  the  top  and  cakes  strewn  with  chopped  nuts 
and  raisins;  high-domed  cakes  from  whose  lacerated  sides 
bits  of  citron  protruded ;  high-domed  cakes  whose  interiors 
were  graced  with  apples  and  marmalades  and  which  smelled 
suggestively  of  something  stronger  than  fruit  or  cider;  fist 


YOUTH  267 

wholesome-looking  cakes,  surmounted  with  peaches  or 
cherries  or  apples  or  Streussel  beautifully  crisped  and 
brown. 

Toward  this  latter  cake,  the  plainest  of  all  that  splendid 
variety,  Guido  directed  his  attention. 

"I'm  awfully  glad  you  saved  me  some  of  that,  Mutter- 
chen"  he  said. 

"Yes,  of  course,  but  you  must  eat  something  warm  first" 

"I  couldn't.     I've  had  supper." 

"With  whom?" 

"Oh,  at  the  grounds,"  he  answered  evasively,  wondering 
why  he  evaded.  Frankness  was  a  habit  between  himself 
and  his  mother.  But  the  mere  thought  of  speaking  of 
Janet  made  his  heart  beat  so  furiously  that  he  was  quite 
incapable  of  attempting  to  discuss  or  describe  or  praise  her. 

"Was  it  as  bad  as  usual?"  he  inquired,  indicating  the 
long  table.  He  knew  that  his  mother  hated  these  coffees. 
She  gave  them  only  to  please  her  husband.  He  believed  that 
it  helped  his  business. 

"Hateful."     She  paused  a  moment  and  then  went  on. 

"It's  detestable  to  discuss  one's  guests  and  it's  unkind 
to  say  unpleasant  things  about  my  own  race  and  my  own 
sex,  but  really,  Guido,  really " 

"Well,  Mother,  tell  me  all  about  and  get  it  out  of  your 
system.  Shoot." 

He  had  answered  her  in  English  as  he  sometimes  did 
to  display  his  slang.  In  her  disgust  with  the  afternoon, 
she  allowed  his  slang  to  pass  unreprimanded. 

"Nun "  he  said,  in  German. 

"Oh,  the  usual  thing.  Everything  German  is  fine  and 
good,  and  all  other  races  are  undesirable  and  inefficient." 

Guido  laughed. 

"I  heard  'em  once,"  he  said. 

"How  can  you  laugh,  Guido  ?"  She  was  quite  indignant. 
"Revolting,  I  call  it.  Every  one  of  our  guests,  it  seems, 
had  a  pet  antipathy  for  some  race.  Don't  laugh,  Guido, 
it's  really — it's  wicked." 

"I  wonder,  Mother,  if  other  races  feel  the  same  way 
about  the  Germans." 

"I  don't  know.     I  don't  think  so.     Perhaps  they  do." 

"Americans  ?" 


268  THE  HYPHEN 

"I  know  so  few.  But  I  think  not.  Race  prejudice  is  so 
stupid,  so  narrow." 

"Especially  stupid  and  narrow  in  this  country,"  said 
Guido.  He  was  now  quite  serious.  "If  men  are  equal, 
then  races  are  equal,  assuredly.  Never  mind  those  silly 
old  women,  Mother.  There's  a  moon.  You  need  air. 
Let's  go  for  a  walk." 

"It's  so  late,"  she  objected.  "Your  father  never  came 
home  until  nine  o'clock." 

"He's  foolish  to  work  so  hard,"  said  Guido.  "Never 
mind  if  it  is  late,  Mother.  Let's  go  sit  in  the  park." 

"I'm  too  tired  to  walk.     We'll  sit  on  the  porch." 

"No,  the  porch  won't  do.  You  need  the  air  of  the 
river.  I'll  'phone  for  the  car.  We  can  drive  down  to  the 
river  and  you  won't  have  to  walk  a  step." 

"Guido,  you  know  your  father  likes  the  chauffeur  to  have 
the  use  of  the  car  for  his  family  on  Saturday  night.  He's 
probably  out  in  it  now." 

"Right-O,  Mutter  chen." 

Nevertheless,  he  ran  into  the  hall  to  the  telephone. 

"Your  father  will  be  SO  displeased,"  she  said  once 
more,  feebly. 

The  obstinacy  which  seized  him  periodically  every  four 
or  five  months  was  upon  him.  Thus,  she  reflected,  did 
he  vindicate  his  sex.  Incomprehensible  creatures — men. 
She  resigned  herself  to  going  with  him  for  the  drive. 
She  would  not  disappoint  him,  of  course.  But  she  would 
scold  him  a  little,  just  to  let  him  know  that  his  graduation 
had  not  unfettered  him  entirely  from  her  authority. 

"Mutterchen!"  Having  finished  his  telephoning,  he 
came  upon  her  radiant,  breathless,  flushed.  "I've  ordered 
a  taxi."  Here  he  paused  and  kissed  her.  "How  he 
cajoles  me,"  she  thought  and  wondered  how  her  show  of 
authority  over  him  would  fall  out.  He  laid  another  soft 
kiss  on  his  mother's  cheek.  "It's  my  treat,"  he  said.  The 
third  kiss  fell  athwart  her  face — somewheres  between  eyes 
and  mouth.  "It's  fine  and  dandy  to  have  such  a  princely 
allowance  as  you  let  me  have,  Mother."  Kiss  Number 
Four  alighted  on  her  hair.  "Fifty  dollars  a  month — if 
Otto  would  only  let  me  hand  it  over  to  him  for  the  next 
few  years."  Kiss  Number  Five,  owing  to  a  rapid  move 
ment  on  Frau  Ursula's  part,  landed  on  her  nose,  a  cir- 


YOUTH  269 

cumstance  which  set  young  Mr.  Hauser  to  laughing  up 
roariously  and  unrestrainedly,  as  if  he  had  been  a  child 
instead  of  a  young  man.  Frau  Ursula  loved  to  hear  him 
laugh  like  that.  The  child  that  had  been  seemed  to  peer 
through  the  folds  of  the  man  that  was  in  the  making. 

She  tried  to  appear  vexed  with  him  for  his  extravagance 
in  ordering  the  taxi.  Secretly,  she  was  enormously  pleased. 
Few  lads,  she  thought,  would  spend  their  money  so  lavishly 
upon  their  mothers.  A  pang  went  through  her  heart. 
Some  day  he  would  have  to  know.  But  this  assurance 
had  suffered  such  frequent  iteration  as  to  have  lost  its 
pristine  horror.  A  question,  comfortable  and  soothing, 
rebounded  from  it  immediately.  Why  should  he  have  to 
know?  There  was  no  one  to  tell  him,  excepting  herself. 
Dr.  Koenig  and  Dobronov  were  in  the  secret,  but  they 
would  never  divulge  it.  And  she  had  made  no  definite 
promise  to  Varvara  Alexandrovna,  although,  as  she  had 
faithfully  carried  out  all  the  lunatic  instructions  of  the 
"murderess"  regarding  Guide's  education,  the  only  logical 
conclusion  would  be  to  apprise  him  of  his  parentage  and 
all  it  involved  upon  his  coming  of  age. 

But  she  shrank  back  from  making  this  ultimate  sacrifice. 
To  stigmatize  herself  as  an  interloper  and  as  an  impostor, 
to  brand  her  motherhood  as  spurious,  was  something  which 
should  not  be  required  of  her.  She  balked  at  mere  thought 
of  the  thing.  It  was  so  preposterous. 

Guido  was  kneeling  at  her  side. 

"Mutterchen,  I  love  you  so  very  much.  There's  not 
another  Mutterchen  like  you  in  the  whole  world.  My  sweet 
and  pretty  little  mother.  My  charming  and  lovely  little 
mother.  My  good,  kind,  saintly  mother." 

He  kissed  her  hands  and  her  cheeks  and  her  hair.  She 
knew  that  something  had  occurred  to  make  him  happy. 
Always,  when  he  was  superlatively  happy  and  contented, 
it  was  his  habit  to  pour  out  these  libations  at  her  feet, 
to  treat  her  with  an  added  gentleness  or  tenderness,  to 
allow  the  fires  of  his  filial  passion  to  burn  more  brightly. 
When  he  was  unhappy  he  crept  away  by  himself.  He 
never  troubled  her  to  comfort  him.  Later,  to-morrow  or 
the  day  after,  he  would  tell  her  what  had  stirred  him  so. 
But  she  knew  him  well  enough  not  to  expect  a  confidence 
to-night. 


270  THE  HYPHEN 

The  moon  was  glorious  indeed.  A  drive  of  five  minutes 
brought  them  to  the  banks  of  the  Hudson.  They  com 
manded  an  unimpeded  view  of  the  stately  sky-line  of  the 
metropolis,  scintillating  goldenly  with  a  phalanx  of  signs 
that  made  bright  the  darkest  night.  The  majestic  sight 
never  failed  to  move  these  two.  They  sat  hand  in  hand, 
in  silence  watching  the  marvelous  spectacle  with  its  sug 
gestion  of  illimitable  grandeur,  wealth  and  energy  pal 
pitating  behind  and  away  from  the  visible  line  of  river-front 
buildings.  Above  all  shone  the  moon,  splendid  in  its  high 
isolation,  mysterious,  eternal,  young  and  yet  old.  Now 
and  then  a  ferry-boat,  bright  like  a  monster  firefly,  swam 
into  the  pathway  shed  by  the  moon,  swam  through  it  and 
away,  splashing  through  the  fairy  ribbon,  dappling  itself 
with  gold,  yet  leaving  that  golden  sheen  unbroken  and  in 
tact  as  before.  Now  and  then  the  uncouth  bulk  of  a 
hoisting  float  or  pile-driving  engine  drove  roughshod  over 
that  strip  of  gold,  leaving  no  smudge  nor  speck  upon  its 
glistening  surface. 

"Beautiful,  oh,  beautiful,"  Guido  breathed  in  his  mother's 
ear. 

"Yes,  but,  alas!  Since  the  Titanic  went  down  I  cannot 
look  upon  the  water  without  thinking  of  the  hideous 

tragedy  of  all  those  lives "  her  voice  trailed  off.  She 

was  overcome  by  the  pathos  of  the  recollection. 

"Yes,  Mother,  dreadful,  dreadful." 

For  a  fleeting  moment  Guido  modulated  his  voice  to  the 
accents  of  compassion.  But  is  former  mood  was  strong 
upon  him  and  he  rebounded  to  it  immediately.  Never  had 
Frau  Ursula  known  his  resilience  to  carry  him  away  from 
a  compassionate  mood  so  quickly.  Prescience  warned  her 
whence  this  resilience  might  draw  its  vigor.  Her  heart 
contracted.  She  chid  the  foolish  organ.  A  girl?  At  his 
age?  Preposterous.  Yet  such  things  had  been.  Well, 
better  to  lose  him  thus  than  to  the  Synthesis;  for,  in  case 
of  the  re-emergence  of  Vasalov  or  the  "murderess"  what 
better  antidote  could  she  wish  for  to  the  baleful  fascina 
tion  which  professional  assassination  might  possibly  exert 
upon  Guido,  than  a  sweetheart  or  a  wife.  Besides,  it 
might  be  Elschen! 

"Did  you  see  Elschen  to-day?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

"Yes,  of  course.     Otto  danced  with  her  all  afternoon." 


YOUTH  271 

"And  you?" 

"I — I  read  Macaulay,  Mother." 

She  noted  the  slight  huskiness  in  his  voice  and  knew 
that  he  was  struggling  to  tell  her  of  whatever  had  befallen 
during  the  afternoon.  He  was  always  more  impulsive  in 
deed  than  in  speech.  His  very  impetuosity  seemed  at 
times  to  render  him  inarticulate,  for  it  made  it  more  diffi 
cult  for  him  to  choose  his  words  and  his  phrases  carefully, 
prudently,  in  order  to  convey  his  precise  meaning.  And 
always  must  he  digest  and  turn  over  and  examine  from 
all  sides  any  adventure  that  befell  him  before  bringing  the 
tale  to  her. 

Therefore  she  was  content  to  wait,  knowing  that  his 
silence  was  due  not  to  secretiveness  or  to  secretiveness' 
uglier  sister,  deceit,  but  merely  to  his  passion  for  an 
orderly,  systematic  presentation. 

Days  elapsed  before  he  nerved  himself  to  tell  his  mother 
about  Janet.  How  could  he  find  words  to  speak  suitably 
of  the  starry,  incomparable  creature  who  was  as  far  above 
all  other  girls  of  his  acquaintance  as  the  sky  was  above 
the  earth?  Janet's  image  never  left  him.  He  looked  for 
her  in  every  black-eyed  girl  whom  he  cnanced  across  in  the 
street,  and  then  amused  himself  by  noting  the  points  of 
difference  between  these  other  dark-haired  maidens  and 
his  nonpareil.  He  had,  in  a  flash,  found  his  taste  in 
women.  As  he  judged  all  other  mothers  by  the  standard 
of  Frau  Ursula,  so,  henceforth  would  he  apply  to  all  girls 
the  criterion  with  which  Janet  had  furnished  him.  Nor 
did  he  judge  blindly.  Undeniable  as  was  Janet's  beauty, 
her  exquisite  fineness  was  the  paramount  recollection  that 
lingered  in  his  memory. 

Within  a  week  he  called.  He  dreaded  intensely  calling, 
and  it  is  doubtful  whether  he  would  have  been  able  to 
overcome  the  active  fear  of  doing  so,  if  the  negative  fear 
of  encountering  Professor  Geddes  in  class  with  the  burden 
of  discourtesy  weighing  him  down,  had  not  been  the 
stronger  incentive. 

His  dread  was  both  a  general  and  a  specific  dread.  The 
Geddeses  were  Americans — very,  very  different  from  the 
German- Americans  of  easy,  off-hand  manners,  with  whom 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  associate  all  his  life.  His 
acquaintance  with  them  was  cursorily  brief.  He  had  no 


272  THE  HYPHEN 

idea  of  the  size  of  the  family.  There  might  be  a  dozen 
girls.  There  was  a  Mrs.  Geddes,  so  much  he  knew  and 
his  fancy  painted  in  lively  colors  the  picture  of  a  gilt- 
edged,  inaccessible  lady  who  would  frown  upon  him  from 
toplofty  heights  and  utterly  crush  him.  He  suffered  from 
a  relapse  of  the  cowardice  which  had  made  him  so  miser 
able  in  his  childhood  during  the  days  which  preceded  Mrs. 
Thornton's  coming.  He  tried  to  buoy  and  brace  himself 
by  reminding  himself  of  the  happiness  that  friendship  had 
brought  him.  But  he  hardly  dared  hope  for  so  happy  a 
repetition,  and  the  residue  of  his  reflections  was  a  painful 
conception  of  Mrs.  Geddes  as  a  lady  of  superfine  breeding 
and  merciless  superciliousness.  He  overlooked  the  cir 
cumstance  that  the  two  attributes  are  not  compatible. 

On  his  way  to  the  Geddes  home  he  encountered  Otto, 
sunk  in  black  gloom,  and  loping  along  with  enormous 
strides  of  his  long  legs.  Otto  had  left  his  position  that 
day,  his  stenographic  position  at  twenty-five  per  which, 
lasting  through  the  summer,  was  to  have  supplied  him 
with  funds  to  defray  his  tuition  and  his  books  for*the  first 
year  at  college. 

"Why,  what  happened?"  Guido  demanded,  seriously  con 
cerned, 

''The  man  I  worked  for  dictated  things  I  didn't  like," 
Otto  replied,  sourly. 

"Things?" 

"Words.     Words  a  gentleman  wouldn't  use." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Otto?" 

"Curse  words.  Downright  bad  words.  I  refused  to  type 
worcfs  of  such  description." 

"Words  merely  profane,  or  foul  words?" 

"Merely  profane!  Well,  yes,  they  were  not  foul,  I 
suppose." 

"Couldn't  you  have  stuck  it?" 

Otto  regarded  Guido  with  horror  in  his  eyes. 

"You  don't  seriously  mean  that,  do  you?"  he  demanded. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Guido.  "I've  always  under 
stood  that  a  stenographer  was  just  a  sort  of  animated  pen. 
I  don't  know  that  I  could  look  upon  myself  in  just  that 
light,  either,  so  I  mustn't  blame  you." 

"Of  course  you  couldn't,"  said  Otto.  He  seemed  to 
breathe  more  freely.  "I'm  going  to  work  in  the  machine 


YOUTH  273 

shop  to-morrow,"  he  said.     "But,  of  course,  I  can't  earn 
enough  there  in  summer  to  tide  me  over  the  entire  winter." 

"I  say,  Otto,  why  don't  you  let  mother  or  me  loan  you 
the  money?  It's  all  poppy-cock,  this  going  to  work  for 
a  year  in  order  to  study  a  year.  Why,  if  you  go  to  college, 
you  can  in  your  first  year  after  you're  through  repay  almost 
half  of  your  debt — if  you  really  insist  on  making  it  a 
loan  instead  of  a  well — a  little  gift." 

"It's  awfully  decent  of  you  to  offer  it  again,"  said  Otto. 
"I  think,  perhaps,  a  loan " 

"Why  not  a  gift,  Otto?  If  you  were  rich  and  I  not 
well-to-do,  do  you  think  I'd  hesitate  to  let  you  finance  me  ?" 

"Like  fun  you  would,"  said  Otto.  "You've  been  rich 
all  your  life,  Guido.  You  don't  know  what  it  feels  like 
to  be  the  other  thing." 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  you'll  let  us  finance  you  ?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Otto,  reluctantly.  "If  you'll  take 
my  note." 

They  shook  hands  on  it  and  then  Guido  turned  down 
Chestnut  Street  to  proceed  to  the  Geddes  home. 

The  house  which  Professor  Geddes  and  his  wife  had 
rented  was  situated  only  a  few  doors  from  Bismarck 
Street — but  it  was  not  on  Bismarck  Street,  a  fact  upon 
which  Anasquoit  might  be  trusted  to  remark.  It  was  a 
house  which  stood  far  back  from  the  street  in  a  garden, 
and  it  had  always  seemed  a  shabby,  slouchy  sort  of  a  place 
to  Guido.  He  was  surprised  to  see  the  improvement  in 
its  appearance.  It  had  suddenly  assumed  dignity,  and  char 
acter,  and  self-respect. 

The  garden  had  been  weeded,  and  cleaned  of  the  ac 
cumulation  of  old  leaves  and  papers  which  had  habitually 
littered  it.  The  house  had  formerly  been  painted  a  dingy 
brown.  Now  it  lay  glimmeringly  white  in  its  patch  of 
garden.  Upon  the  front  door  shone  a  brightly  polished 
brass  stag-head-and-ring  knocker,  the  diamond  pane  win 
dows  were  neatly  curtained  and  green  window  boxes,  filled 
with  pink  geraniums  in  full  bloom,  graced  the  window-sills. 

Guido  lingered  a  moment  at  the  gate.  The  old  place, 
thus  metamorphosed,  had  not  merely  character,  it  had 
atmosphere.  It  seemed  to  him  a  fitting  abode  for  Janet. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  colored  maid  in  white  cap 
and  apron  and  a  black  close-fitting  dress.  Servants  in 


274  THE  HYPHEN 

uniform  were  also  an  innovation  for  Anasquoit,  and  Guide's 
fear  of  Mrs.  Geddes  and  sense  of  oppression  returned. 

Guido  asked  to  see  Miss  Geddes,  and  had  a  silver  salver 
thrust  under  his  nose. 

"I  have  no  card  with  me,"  he  stammered,  furious  with 
himself  for  being  thus  derelict. 

The  girl  smiled  good-naturedly. 

"Whaht's  the  name?"  she  asked. 

"Mr.  Hauser." 

"Whaht?" 

"Hauser,"  said  Guido,  more  loudly. 

"Wha-a-a-a-aht  ?"  demanded  the  girl  again. 

Guido  repeated  his  name  once  more.  Suddenly  a  great 
light  seemed  to  dawn  upon  the  girl.  The  light  of  com 
prehension  which  dawned  in  her  eyes  carried  with  it  the 
flattering  sense  that  the  name  was  not  new  to  her,  was, 
perhaps,  a  name  traditional  in  the  household. 

His  pleasurable  excitement,  consequently,  was  very  great 
as  he  waited  in  the  drawing-room  which  was  a  real  draw 
ing-room  and  not  a  parlor.  The  furniture — he  had  known 
that  that  would  be  so,  of  course — was  Colonial  mahogany, 
and  wonderful  faded-looking  velvets  and  hangings  and 
cushions  in  blues  and  wine-color  and  greens  gave  a  soft, 
rich,  lived-in  appearance  to  the  room.  Guido  had  the  wit 
to  guess  that  the  hangings  and  cushion  tops  were  not  really 
faded  but  that  their  subdued  effect  was  an  intentional 
sublety  accruing  to  the  new  pastel  shades  of  which  he  had 
heard  so  much. 

His  pleasurable  excitement  abated.  The  colored  maid 
would  have  heard  his  name  while  Janet  or  her  father  told 
Mrs.  Geddes  of  the  adventure  of  her  rescue  from  which 
he,  Guido,  could  not  very  well  be  expunged.  The  balloon 
in  which  his  vanity  had  been  soaring  sky-high,  thus  pricked, 
collapsed  and  left  him  stranded  in  deepest  gloom. 

He  loved  the  room,  but  its  perfection  frightened  him 
and  he  was  feeling  very  small  and  ill  at  ease  when  the 
door  finally  opened  and  he  became  aware  that  someone 
had  entered.  He  started  to  his  feet  and  saw  not  Janet 
but  a  lady  whom  by  the  strong  resemblance  to  Janet — 
the  narrow,  high-bred,  handsome  face — he  would  have 
known  as  Janet's  mother  anywhere. 

For  a  moment  they  gazed  at  each  other  in  mutual  aston- 


YOUTH  275 

ishment,  then  the  lady  said,  speaking  in  a  high-pitched, 
pleasant  voice: 

"Did  you  wish  to  see  me?" 

Reflect  upon  the  lad's  dilemna.  The  question  was  awk 
wardly  phrased,  very  awkwardly  for  so  fine  a  lady.  Could 
he  say  "no"?  To  do  so  might  be  to  affront  her  mortally. 
"Yes"  would  be  a  palpable  falsehood,  for  he  had  not  asked 
for  her,  had  not  been  introduced  to  her  and  had  no  official 
knowledge  of  her  identity. 

He  said,  looking  very  confused  and  distressingly  red: 

"I — that  is — I  asked  for  Miss  Geddes." 

"Miss  Geddes !  I  see."  The  lady  smiled  discreetly.  Her 
smile  was  delicious,  a  sort  of  porcelain  smile,  very  refined, 
very  gentle,  very  reticent.  Never,  never  would  it  broaden 
into  anything  so  vulgar  as  a  grin,  so  bold  as  a  laugh. 

"Our  maid  blundered.  She  is  almost  deaf  and  names 
bother  her  horribly.  I  was  expecting  a  Mr.  Towzer.  Towzer 
and  Hauser — that  IS  your  name,  isn't  it? — are  somewhat 
alike  in  sound.  Conceivably  they  might  be  mistaken — but 
Mr.  Towzer  is  a  paper-hanger  whom  I  was  expecting — 
and,  of  course,  the  moment  I  saw  you  I  knew  there  was  a 
mistake " 

Mrs.  Geddes  spoke  in  a  swift,  cool,  breathless  sort  of  a 
way,  as  if  she  were  eager  to  get  through  with  what  she 
had  to  say  and  be  done  with  it.  She  never  lowered  her 
voice  to  put  a  period  to  her  words,  but  strung  them  along 
like  festoons  or  an  endless  chain.  She  wolfed  the  spoken 
word  as  some  good  people  wolf  their  food,  which  latter, 
as  Guido  was  to  learn,  she  disposed  of  most  daintily.  But 
she  bolted  her  words,  as  if  recognizing  their  utility  while 
refusing  them  recognition  as  things  of  beauty. 

"I  am  so  sorry  to  have  disturbed  you,"  said  Guido. 

Mrs.  Geddes  gave  the  boy  a  swift,  sharp  look.  Her 
manner  changed  imperceptibly  from  perfunctory  civility 
to  a  courtesy  in  which  a  sort  of  self-contained,  deliberate 
warmth  was  delicately  observable. 

"You  did  not  disturb  me,"  she  said,  in  her  quick,  rattling 
way.  "I  should  have  wished  at  any  rate  to  thank  the 
young  man  who  helped  Janet  the  other  evening — you  must 
wait  for  Janet — she'll  be  in  presently." 

"She's  here  now,"  Janet's  clear  young  voice  cried  from  the 


276  THE  HYPHEN 

hall.  A  moment  later  the  girl  came  walking  quickly  into 
the  room.  She  shook  hands  warmly  with  Guido. 

"I  see  you've  made  friends  with  Mother,"  she  said,  a 
mischievous  glint  in  her  black  eyes. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Geddes,  in  her  rapid,  breathless  way, 
"Mother  has  made  friends  with  him."  She  turned  to 
Guido.  "You'll  excuse  me  now — won't  you?  I  hope  to 
see  you  here  often.  Janet  frequently  has  her  young  friends 
in  informally — we're  barely  settled  yet — the  rooms  are  still 
topsy-turvy." 

Her  glance  strayed  about  the  room,  from  spotlessly  oiled 
floors  to  spotlessly  swept  rugs,  from  immaculate  ceiling 
to  polished  furniture,  from  well-hung  portieres  to  well- 
arranged  curtains.  Unconsciously  Guido  followed  the  path 
of  her  eyes. 

"Terribly  topsy-turvy,  this  room,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Hauser?" 
naughty  Janet  demanded. 

"I  thought  it  perfect,"  the  boy  said,  simply.  "I  think 
it  the  prettiest  room  I  have  ever  seen." 

"Rude  boy,"  exclaimed  Janet,  mischievously.  "Do  you 
not  know  it  is  the  height  of  discourtesy  to  praise  other 
people's  possessions?  For  in  doing  so,  you  admit  the 
possibility  of  lapses  in  their  taste.  And  that  to  my 
mother !" 

The  facile  color  came  to  Guide's  cheek,  but  his  voice 
was  steady,  his  speech  fluent,  as  he  replied: 

"The  taste  that  is  responsible  for  this  room  is  quite 
incapable  of  any  lapses,  I  should  say.  I  hope,  Mrs.  Geddes, 
you  will  overlook  my  fault  in  admiring  it." 

"This  room  is  the  pride  of  my  heart  and  I  love  to  have 
folks  tell  me  they  like  it,"  Mrs.  Geddes  replied,  adding: 
"Don't  let  Janet  tease  you.  Tease  back — it's  the  only  way 
to  hold  your  own  with  her.  I've  known  her  for  seventeen 
years — and  I'm  not  used  to  her  yet." 

Janet  exclaimed :    "Hear,  oh,  hear !" 

Mrs.  Geddes  extended  her  hand. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Towzer,"  she  said. 

"Hauser!  Mother.     Hauser!" 

"Ah;"  said  Mrs.  Geddes,  in  her  usual  hasty  way  which 
seemed  to  involve  the  mere  commonplaces  of  existence 
and  none  of  the  humorously  embroidered  themes,  "that  is 
our  joke,  and  if  Mr.  Hauser  is  wise,  he  will  keep  you 


YOUTH  277 

guessing  a  while  as  to  its  nature!"  From  which  Guido 
gathered  that  Janet's  sense  of  mischief  was  not  inherited 
solely  from  her  father. 

Janet  was  in  a  merry  mood.  Guido  thought  she  looked 
younger  than  on  the  day  of  the  picnic — quite  a  child — 
and  even  more  beautiful.  He  thought  her  to-day  not  only 
more  beautiful  than  any  creature  he  had  ever  seen  but 
far  lovelier  than  he  had  imagined  flesh  and  blood  might 
be.  It  seemed  to  him  the  most  wonderful  thing  that  had 
ever  happened  to  him  that  he  should  be  sitting  alongside 
of  so  divine  a  creature,  spending  an  hour  all  alone  with 
her.  That  possibility  also  had  exceeded  the  boldest  flights 
of  his  imagination.  Adolescence  had  him  in  its  grip  and 
painted  a  reality  which  in  sooth  was  barely  beautiful  in 
hues  which  made  it  seem  super-real  and  super-wonderful. 
He  compared  her  again  to  the  other  girls  of  his  acquaintance 
— a  fruitful  subject.  Even  Elschen  paled  into  insignificance 
before  the  royal  magnificence  of  this  girl's  beauty  and  wit. 

He  felt  as  if  her  mere  presence  shed  a  luster  upon  him. 
She  stimulated  his  mind.  In  serious  conversation,  as  with 
Dobronov,  he  had  always  been  able  to  hold  his  own.  Of 
small  talk  he  had  hitherto  fought  shy,  pretending  to  despise 
its  frivolity  but  secretly  appalled  by  the  demands  it  made 
upon  one's  alertness  and  sense  of  timeliness.  Now  small 
talk  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  More 
than  that;  Janet  injected  into  it  wit  and  shrewdness. 
Guido  was  unaware  that  he  was  contributing  as  his  share 
of  the  conversation  a  fund  of  repartee  and  point  which 
the  girl  had  not  been  accustomed  to  from  one  of  her  own 
generation. 

As  he  was  leaving,  Janet  inquired,  abruptly : 

"Are  you  coming  to  see  us  at  our  country  home  in 
Sullivan  County?" 

"Of  course,  I'll  come,"  said  Guido,  "if  your  mother  will 
invite  me." 

"Oh,  Mother'll  invite  you  all  right.  You've  made  a  hit 
with  Mother,  Mr.  Towzer.  You  knew  it,  didn't  you? 
Well,  you  will  the  first  time  you  see  her  manner  toward 
any  friend  of  mine  or  father's  she  doesn't  like.  It  makes 
a  refrigerator  look  like  a  sizzling  July  day." 

A  few  days  later  Frau  Ursula  threw  open  the  spacious 
grounds  of  her  handsome  home  for  the  annual  fete  of  the 


278  THE  HYPHEN 

Woman's  Suffrage  Club.  She  had  done  so  for  years,  partly 
out  of  deference  for  Hauser's  wishes,  who  let  no  oppor 
tunity  for  the  social  advancement  of  the  owner  of  the 
Leviathan  escape  unimproved,  partly  as  a  matter  of  friend 
ship  for  Mrs.  Erdman,  whose  incumbency  of  the  chair 
manship  of  the  Club  continued  unopposed  from  year  to 
year. 

"If  you  continue  like  this,  you  will  some  day,  like  Caesar, 
be  accused  of  aspiring  to  the  crown,"  Hauser  had  said 
to  Mrs.  Erdman  at  last  year's  fete,  a  speech  which  pleased 
his  wife  inordinately.  She  retained  the  European  s  taste 
for  classical  allusions. 

To  the  garden  fete  this  year  came  Mrs.  Geddes  and 
Janet,  presenting  cards  which  proclaimed  them  to  be  the 
guests  of  Mrs.  Horatio  Frazin,  the  wife  of  the  President 
of  the  Faculty.  Guido,  chatting  with  Elschen,  was  leaning 
against  one  of  the  columns  of  the  pergola,  which  at  this 
season  was  latticed  with  a  profusion  of  pink  ramblers.  He 
was  transfixed  with  amazement  upon  seeing  Mrs.  Geddes 
and  Janet  enter  the  garden.  Elschen  was  narrating  at 
length  some  experience  of  her  uneventful  girlhood  in  her 
precise,  unimaginative,  correct  way.  Without  giving 
offense  he  could  not  interrupt  her  to  greet  the  stranger 
newcomers.  Janet  caught  sight  of  him  and  gave  him  a 
brilliant  smile.  The  girl's  beauty  and  manner  were  such 
that  a  perceptible  lull  fell  upon  the  company  and  every 
body  clandestinely  studied  the  fair  unknown.  Elschen, 
subtly  warned  as  girls  will  will  be  on  such  occasions,  stole 
a  glance  at  Guide's  face  and  stopped  her  narrative. 
Guido,  though  he  had  not  been  listening  to  her  words, 
noticed  that  Elschen  had  stopped  speaking  and  said: 

"Why  don't  you  go  on  with  your  story,  Elschen?" 

"Because  I  do  not  think  that  it  interests  either  of  us 
very  much,"  Elschen  replied.  There  was  something  under 
the  surface  innocence  of  this  reply,  a  hidden  barb,  that 
amazed  Guido  intensely.  He  politely  entreated  her  to 
resume  her  story,  vowing  that  he  at  least,  was  interested 
in  it.  He  gave  some  attention  to  it  now.  But  Janet's 
presence  had  so  sharpened  his  perceptions  that  his  thoughts 
radiated  in  three  or  four  directions  at  one  and  the  same 
time,  and  while  Elschen  continued  her  painstaking  account 
he  reflected  how  horrified  Otto  would  have  been  by  the 


YOUTH  279 

polite  fib  which  he  had  just  foisted  upon  Elschen.  But, 
what  was  worse,  to  tell  a  white  lite  or  be  a  social  boor? 
Apparently  man  cannot  always  control-  the  channel  of  his 
thoughts  and  inclinations,  and  the  choice  between  fibbing 
or  being  rude  becomes  inevitable  at  times.  He  must  dis 
cuss  this  with  Dobronov.  But  not  to-day.  Dobronov 
would  be  quite  capable  of  perching  himself  upon  a  pillar 
of  the  pergola  and  preaching  the  gospel  of  unequivocal 
honesty  in  speech;  and  Otto  would  be  quite  capable  of 
applauding  him  and  inviting  all  secret  liars  to  step  forward 
and  publicly  repent  of  their  sins — like  poor  old  Dr.  John 
son  in  the  market-place,  or  the  Reverend  Arthur  Dimmes- 
dale  in  "The  Scarlet  Letter." 

Otto  appeared  at  this  moment,  cast  a  blighting  look  of 
stormy  disapproval  upon  Mrs.  Geddes  and  Janet  and  strode 
forward  toward  Elschen  with  the  air  of  a  conqueror. 

"Elschen,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  tell  you  what  Guido  is 
doing  for  me.  He  is  going  to  loan  me " 

"Oh,  please,  Otto "  Guido  implored  his  friend  with 

a  gesture  to  be  silent. 

"I  want  Elschen  to  know,"  said  Otto  doggedly.  "I'm 
not  ashamed  to  be  under  obligations  to  you,  Guido.  And 
I  want  Elschen " 

Guido  saw  his  chance  to  escape. 

"All  right,  old  fellow,  if  you  must  tell  you  must,"  he 
said,  "but  excuse  me,  will  you?" 

And  he  rushed  away  before  either  Otto  or  Elschen  could 
stop  him. 

The  intensified  powers  of  observation  which  Janet's 
presence  had  engendered  in  him  had  enabled  Guido,  while 
listening  to  Elschen  and  defending  himself  against  Otto, 
to  observe  that  his  mother  had  gone  forward  to  greet  Mrs. 
Geddes  and  Janet.  She  had  not  yet  met  them,  but  Guido 
had  by  this  time  told  her  about  Janet,  and  he  was  certain, 
from  the  smile  that  came  to  her  eyes  as  well  as  to  her 
lips,  that  she  guessed  who  the  strangers  were. 

Guido  reveled  in  the  greeting  that  took  place  between 
his  mother  and  Janet's.  Two  women  of  the  world,  wisely 
worldly,  but  not  worldly  wise,  were  taking  each  other's 
measure  and  the  measure  was  not  found  to  be  wanting. 
He  broke  easily  into  the  charmed  circle,  and  was  rewarded 


28o  THE  HYPHEN 

by  a  smile  from  Janet,  sweet  and  shy  this  time,  not  brightly 
dazzling  as  before. 

Professor  Geddes  arrived  a  few  minutes  later.  Mrs. 
Geddes  presented  her  husband  and  then  asked  Hauser  to 
show  her  the  honeysuckle  at  the  south  end  of  the  pergola. 
She  seemed  to  attach  a  high  valuation  to  Hauser,  a  fact 
which  Frau  Ursula  did  not  fail  to  note.  It  pleased  her 
that  Mrs.  Geddes  should  like  Hauser.  And  she  thought 
it  understandable  that  it  should  be  so.  Hauser,  fault 
lessly  clad  in  pearl-gray,  with  his  iron-gray  hair  and  his 
portliness  and  his  grave  air  of  personal  importance  looked 
more  like  a  minister  plenipotentiary  than  a  man  of  com 
merce. 

Frau  Ursula  and  Professor  Geddes  were  left  alone.  He 
said  a  few  conventional  words  of  appreciation  of  the 
service  Guido  had  rendered  Janet,  and  then  added,  with 
the  soft  peremptoriness  of  an  instructor: 

"Mrs.  Hauser,  I  want  very  much  to  borrow  your  boy 
for  the  summer — as  my  secretary,  I  mean.  The  salary  will 
not  be  large — "  he  glanced  about  the  beautifully  appointed 
grounds  and  the  prententious  gray  stone  house — "it  is 
almost  an  impertinence,  I  fancy,  to  speak  of  a  salary  for 
your  boy.  The  only  actual  advantage  I  can  offer  him  is 
a  congenial  occupation.  I  am  taking  it  for  granted  that 
you  and  your  husband  are  of  the  same  mind  as  myself, 
that  a  young  man  of  your  son's  age  is  better  employed 
than  unemployed  all  summer.  I  have  in  my  summer  home 
a  library,  or  rather  a  large  assortment  of  books  which  will 
evolve  into  a  library  once  my  secretary  and  myself  have 
catalogued  it.  I  hope  you  will  not  frustrate  my  plans." 

Frau  Ursula  was  anything  but  obtuse.  The  Professor's 
manner  was  as  transparent  as  daylight.  Nevertheless,  she 
could  not  but  fail  to  perceive  that  he  had  left  much  unsaid. 
Delicacy  forbade  that  he  should  dwell  upon  the  most 
salient  advantage  which  Frau  Ursula  had  apprehended 
fully  before  he  ceased  speaking — the  close  companionship 
into  which  Guido  would  be  thrown  with  himself. 

"No  plan  for  Guide's  summer  would  please  me  better," 
she  said. 

"Then " 

Her  eye  traveled  down  the  broad  garden-path,  stumbled 
over  an  obstacle  and  was  arrested  by  it.  The  obstruction 


YOUTH  281 

consisted  of  Janet  and  Guido,  who  stood  facing  each  other. 
The  smile  on  her  lips  and  on  his  was  almost  one  smile, 
so  strong  a  sense  of  unity  did  it  convey.  In  their  eyes 
was  the  innocent,  untroubled  comprehension  of  youth  for 
youth. 

Frau  Ursula  turned  and  faced  the  Professor.  A  look, 
almost  as  penetratingly  comprehending  as  that  which  in 
terlocked  the  eyes  of  Janet  and  Guido  passed  between 
Janet's  father  and  Guide's  mother.  She  was  a  little  per 
plexed.  But  of  one  thing  she  was  sure.  Professor  Geddes 
and  his  wife  were  the  most  desirable  acquaintances  she 
had  made  in  years,  placing  upon  the  word  "desirable"  not 
the  crushing  load  of  shekels  and  position  but  the  frailer 
yet  more  precious  burden  of  spiritual  profit  and  gain.  She 
might  safely  trust  Guido  to  them.  And  Janet?  As  com 
pared  with  Elschen?  Frau  Ursula  prided  herself  upon 
her  Americanism  with  justice,  but  the  sense  of  race  is 
never  entirely  dormant  in  any  human  being,  and  Frau 
Ursula's  showed  itself  in  her  allegiance  to  the  Germanic 
type  of  beauty,  of  which  Elschen  was  such  a  rarely  ex 
quisite  exponent.  Frau  Ursula  was,  indeed,  so  greatly 
under  Elschen's  spell  that  she  did  not  believe  any  black- 
haired,  black-eyed  girl  might  eclipse  golden-haired,  blue- 
eyed  Elschen.  Moreover,  Frau  Ursula  carried  her  aristo- 
democracy  into  the  emotional  and  philosophic  spheres.  She 
believed  in  freedom  of  choice  and  was  prepared  to  bow 
to  the  inevitable.  Had  not  Hauser's  cyclonic  wooing  fol 
lowed  by  his  unaccountable  indifference,  real  or  assumed, 
broken  her  to  a  complete  acceptance  of  the  inevitable? 

Guido,  approached  a  little  later  by  Professor  Geddes  in 
his  mother's  hearing,  accepted  the  Professor's  proposition 
with  eager  alacrity.  Frau  Ursula,  seeing  him  thus  willing, 
nay  eager,  to  leave  her,  experienced  a  pang.  And  yet,  why 
should  she?  She  was  quite  as  willing  and  eager  to  have 
him  go  as  he  was  to  go.  In  other  years  Guido  and  she 
had  spent  the  summers  together  at  some  mountain  or  sea 
shore  resort.  She  hoped,  she  knew  not  what,  from  a  sum 
mer  alone  with  Hauser. 

Otto,  when  apprised  that  evening  of  Guide's  plan  for 
the  summer,  said  curtly: 

"Of  course.  Americans.  Naturally  you'd  fall  for 
them." 


282  THE  HYPHEN 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Guido  demanded,  with  mounting 
indignation. 

"I  don't  like  these  Americans,"  said  Otto,  stolidly.  His 
manner  was  vague.  Whether  he  referred  especially  to 
the  Geddes  family  or  included  all  Americans  in  his  re 
mark,  Guido  could  not  tell.  "They're  too  sweet.  So  much 
sweetness  isn't  natural.  It  can't  be  sincere." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Guido,  curtly.  "The 
German  manner,  I  think,  is  quite  as  'sweet'  as  you  term  it." 

"Well,  anyhow,"  Otto  continued,  "you  can't  see,  of 
course,  what  everybody  else  can  see — the  reason  why  you're 
being  asked  to  accept  such  a  snap  of  a  job." 

"Well,  who  is  everybody  else?"  Guido  asked.  "You 
cannot  have  talked  me  over  with  anyone  else,  because  I 
told  you  only  just  now." 

"I  meant  myself,"  said  Otto,  surlily. 

"Well,  what's  the  reason?"  Guido  demanded. 

"You're  a  rich  young  fellow.  They  have  a  marriageable 
daught " 

"You "   Guido   cried,   springing    furiously   from   his 

chair.  He  stopped  short.  He  had  been  about  to  class  his 
bosom  friend  with  the  quadruped  which,  highly  esteemed 
as  food,  is — with  justice — utterly  condemned  for  its  dearth 
of  cleanliness. 

Guido  recollected  in  time  that  he  was  both  Otto's  host 
and  prospective  benefactor.  Later  he  selfishly  congratu 
lated  himself  that  benevolence  had  made  him  forego  the 
pleasure  of  bringing  into  concussion  his  fist  and  Otto's 
nose.  He  remembered  the  lesson  of  his  childhood  and 
knew  only  too  well  what  would  have  happened.  Otto, 
healthy  young  savage,  strong  and  lithe  of  limb  and  clean- 
lived  and  fearless  as  those  forebears  who,  followers  of 
Arminius,  gave  battle  to  the  Roman  legions  and  vanquished 
them  in  defense  of  their  hearths  and  homes — Otto  would 
have  caught  his — Guido's — hands  and  held  them  in  his  iron 
grip  as  easily  as  if  they  had  been  a  child's,  and  holding 
Guido's  thus,  would  have  read  him  a  lecture  on  the  abomina 
tion  of  foul  language. 

There  was  a  person  of  considerable  importance  in  this 
history  who  was  as  greatly  puzzled  touching  the  Professor's 
motives  in  offering  Guido  the  secretaryship  as  Otto  was 
cock-sure  of  them.  This  was  Janet. 


YOUTH  283 

"Daddy,  why  did  you  ask  Guido  to  be  your  secretary?" 

"Why  do  you  think?"  the  Professor  parried,  gazing  at 
his  daughter  over  his  book,  for  this  conversation  took  place 
after  supper  in  the  Professor's  study. 

"If  I  knew  I  wouldn't  ask,"  Janet  replied,  pouting. 

"Perhaps  I  don't  know  myself." 

"Daddy,  you  don't  expect  your  little  daughter  to  believe 
that,  do  you  ?" 

"Urn." 

"Daddy,  you  do  know." 

"Well,  possibly  I  do." 

"You're  a  terrible  tease,  Daddy." 

"Tease?  I?  Why,  daughter,  I  thought  it  was  you  who 
were  teasing  me." 

The  professor  continued  dallying  with  his  book  through 
out  this  talk,  thus  giving  a  fine  air  of  abstraction  to  his 
answers.  Janet  sat  in  silence  for  a  minute,  watching  him 
pretend  to  read  a  line  or  two.  Suddenly  she  cried: 

"I  have  it." 

"What  have  you?" 

"The  reason  you've  asked  Guido  Hauser  to  be  your 
secretary.  You  think  I  am  seriously  in  love,  which  I  am 
not,  and  you  want  to  test  this  young  man — see  how  he 
stands  scrutiny  at  close  range." 

"That,"  said  the  Professor,  "is  a  plausible  reason.  At  any 
rate  you've  given  me  an  idea." 

Janet  again  fell  silent  for  a  moment.     Then,  she  cried: 

"Daddy,  perhaps  you've  asked  Guido  because  you  think 
my  cousin  Cecil,  whom  Mother  has  asked  to  spend  his 
vacation  with  us,  would  be  lonesome  without  another  boy, 
seeing  there  are  nothing  but  women  on  top  of  that  blessed 
mountain." 

"That,"  said  the  Professor,  gravely,  "is  also  an  excellent 
reason." 

Janet  again  taxed  her  powers  of  conjecture. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "you  asked  him  because  he's  a 
book-worm  like  yourself.  It's  a  case  of  like  seeking  like." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  the  Professor,  laying  down  his 
book,  "I  think  I  like  that  reason  best  of  all." 

"Daddy,"  said  Janet,  with  the  utmost  gravity,  "when  you 
were  engaged,  did  you  tease  my  mother  as  you  tease  me, 
and  if  you  did,  how  did  she  stand  it?" 


284  THE  HYPHEN 

"Well,  that's  your  mother's  secret,  not  mine.  I  divulge 
only  my  own  secrets." 

"Oh,  yes  you  do,"  Janet  laughed.  "Daddy,  please,  please 
tell  me." 

"It's  not  good  for  you  to  get  everything  you  want." 

"It's  so  little  I  want  just  now — just  a  little  informa 
tion." 

"Sometimes  a  little  information  is  the  most  precious 
thing  in  the  world." 

"Well,  this  little  bit  of  information  is  not  the  most 
precious  thing  in  the  world  as  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

"No?" 

"No;  you  are,  you  dear,  naughty  old  Daddykins." 

"Ha,"  cried  the  Professor.  "Flattery.  Bribery  of  the 
worst  sort.  A  kiss.  I  shall  never  tell  you  now — no, 
never." 

"Daddy!" 

"Well,  it's  really  not  worth  making  such  a  fuss  over. 
I'll  tell." 

"Ah,  Daddy!" 

"I  asked  Guido  Hauser  to  be  my  secretary  because  I 
want  him  to  catalogue  my  books." 

Without  a  word  Janet  rose  and  made  for  the  door. 

"You're  incorrigible,  Professor  Geddes,"  she  said.  "I 
go  to  sympathize  with  my  mother." 

"Ned,"  said  Mrs.  Geddes  that  evening,  "I  wonder  if  it 
was  wise  of  you  to  ask  that  German-American  boy  up 
to  Three  Corners  for  the  summer."  Mrs.  Geddes'  manner 
showed  that  she  was  slightly  displeased,  if  so  harsh  a 
term  may  be  applied  to  any  criticism  of  the  Professor  in 
which  the  Professor's  wife  might  choose  to  indulge.  Her 
displeasure,  if  displeasure  it  was,  arose  from  the  fact  that 
her  nephew,  an  English  boy,  was  in  the  habit  of  spending 
his  summers  with  them.  Mrs.  Geddes  shared  certain  pro 
pensities  of  her  sex,  and  she  had  a  project  in  mind  in 
volving  Janet  and  Cecil  the  nature  of  which  will  be  clear 
without  further  specification. 

"I  believe,"  she  continued,  "that  Janet  is  in  love  with 
him.  And  she's  met  him  just  twice.  Do  such  things 
happen  ?" 

"They  do,"  said  the  Professor,  adding  contritely: 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  right,  Jane.     I  didn't  think  she 


YOUTH  285 

was  seriously  in  love  with  the  lad  when  I  made  him  the 
offer — she  was  so  frank  in  admitting  her  infatuation.  To 
day  she  denied  it." 

"That's  bad." 

"Very,"  the  Professor  assented,  still  more  humbly.  "She 
is  entirely  too  young  to  even  think  of  a  serious  love 
affair." 

"I  would  rather  have  her  involved  in  a  serious  love  affair 
than  in  a  frivolous  one,"  said  Mrs.  Geddes.  "She's  not 
so  young,  either.  She's  sixteen.  I  was  eighteen  when 
I  married  you.  At  nineteen  I  was  a  mother." 

"Girls  keep  young  so  much  longer  now-a-days,"  said 
the  Professor.  His  words  might  have  been  construed  as 
unflattering,  but  although  Mrs.  Geddes  perceived  this 
possibility,  the  words  did  not  sting  her — not  in  the  least. 

She  bit  her  inner  lip  to  check  the  smile  that  would 
rise.  Drooped  eyelids  hid  the  twinkle  in  her  eyes,  as  she 
asked : 

"Ned,  if  that  sentence  had  been  addressed  to  a  woman 
not  your  wife,  would  it  have  been  a  compliment?" 

"That  I  cannot  say,"  the  Professor  rejoined  with  some 
heat,  "because  I  would  not  have  addressed  that  sentence 
to  any  woman  not  my  wife.  Addressed  to  my  wife  it 
was  a  compliment.  Ah,  Jane,"  the  Professor  cried,  with 
sudden  tenderness,  "there  never  was  and  never  will  be  a 
girl  quite  as  beautiful  as  you  were  at  seventeen." 

"Janet  is  far  more  beautiful  than  I  was,"  said  Janet's 
mother. 

"Is  she,  really?  Well,  perhaps  she  is.  But  she  hasn't 
the  dignity  you  had.  That  is  what  I  meant  by  saying 
girls  keep  younger  now-a-days." 

"She  will  be  developing  all  the  dignity  she  needs  over 
night,"  said  Mrs.  Geddes,  "and  then  you  will  go  about 
lamenting  that  your  little  girl  has  vanished." 

"I  would  not  have  you  think  I  found  fault  with  our 
daughter,"  said  the  Professor,  quite  seriously.  "I  think 
the  child  perfect  as  she  is." 

Mrs.  Geddes'  fluttering  eyelids  dropped  again.  Guido 
had  guessed  correctly  as  to  the  joint  origin  of  Janet's  love 
of  mischief. 

"If  Janet  is  perfect,"  she  said,  "since  perfection  is  an 


286  THE  HYPHEN 

extreme  state,  will  you  not  have  to  revise  your  former 
asseveration — about  myself  ?" 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  expostulated  the  Professor,  "the  per 
fection  of  the  Marechal  Niel  rose  does  not  in  the  least 
infringe  upon  the  perfection  of  the  American  Beauty." 

Mrs.  Geddes  rose  and  kissed  her  husband  on  the  brow. 

"It's  wicked  to  tease  you,  Ned,"  she  said,  "you  tease  so 
easily." 

"That  may  be  so  when  you  tease  me,  Jane,"  said  the 
Professor.  "Janet  is  not  quite  so  successful." 

"And  now,"  said  Mrs.  Geddes,  "  'fess  up.  Why  did  you 
ask  that  German- American  lad  to  be  your  secretary?" 

"My  dear — I  asked  your  permission." 

"My  permission  to  engage  a  secretary,  Professor?  Pray, 
Ned,  never  say  such  things  in  the  presence  of  others  unless 
you  wish  to  be  thought  a  henpecked  husband." 

"Well,  dear,  I  consulted  you." 

"Yes,  you  did.  But  I  had  the  feeling,  Ned,  that  you 
were  not  quite  frank  with  me.  Since  seeing  the  lad — he 
is  really  an  exceptionally  charming  boy — the  impression  is 
strengthened.  So,  come  now,  'fess  up." 

"Well,"  said  the  Professor,  uneasily,  "I'll  be  entirely 
candid  with  you.  I  was  afraid  Janet  might  fall  in  love 
with  Cecil." 

"What's  the  objection  to  Cecil?" 

"Nothing  but  that  he's  her  cousin." 

"Her  first  cousin  once  removed.  The  consanguinity  is 
sufficiently  remote,  I  should  think,  not  to  make  a  marriage 
undesirable." 

"I   do  not  agree  with  you,  Jane,"  the  Professor  con 
tinued,    warming  to    his    subject.      "In    fact,    I    feel   very 
strongly  in  the  matter.     I  know  the  project  is  very  dear 
to  you " 

"It  is.     Cecil  is — well,  Cecil  is  Cecil." 

"Yes.  Quite  as  much  so  as  Janet  is  Janet.  Perfection 
each.  What  does  Shakespeare  say? 

"And  she  again  wants  nothing,  to  name  want, 
If  want  it  be  not  that  she  is  not  he; 
He  is  the  half  part  of  a  blessed  man, 
Left  to  be  finished  by  such  as  she; 
And  she  a  fair  divided  excellence." 


YOUTH  287 

"Professor,"  said  Mrs.  Geddes,  "I  always  mistrust  you 
when  you  quote  Shakespeare.  As  you  know.  If  you  like 
Cecil  so  well " 

"I  like  him  so  well  that  I  fear  Janet  may  like  him  so 
well  also." 

"And  you  like  Guido  Hauser  so  well  that  you  hope 
Janet  may  like  him  so  well  also." 

"No,  no,"  cried  the  Professor,  "that  is  not  so !  Upon 
my  word,  that  is  not  so.  I  would  use  Guido  to  neutralize 
Cecil,  and  Cecil  to  neutralize  Guido." 

"Are  you  quite — forgive  me — truthful?" 

"Cross  my  heart,  honest  Injun,"  said  the  Professor  in 
such  an  injured  little  boy's  tone  that  his  wife  laughed. 

"Nevertheless,  Professor,  I  do  not  entirely  believe  you. 
I  think  you  are  very  much  smitten  with  this  protege  of 
yours." 

"Well,"  said  the  Professor,  brazenly,  "do  you  blame 
me?" 

The  Professor's  lady  sighed. 

"I  like  a  more  athletic  boy — like  Cecil,"  she  said.  And 
then  added,  with  fine  abnegation:  "It's  all  on  the  knees 
of  the  gods." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  summer  that  ensued  marked  for  Guido  not  so 
much  a  turning-point  of  life  as  a  period  of  expansion, 
of  amplification.  It  was  a  season  of  simple  physical 
episodes  and  complex  spiritual  adventures,  of  material 
comfort  and  great  mental  stress;  a  season  of  paradoxes; 
of  strange  unrest,  of  ungentle  awakening  to  the  swift, 
terrible  verities  which  ruthlessly  inhere  in  life. 

He  left  Anasquoit  and  arrived  at  Three  Corners  on 
July  5th,  the  most  fateful  date  in  modern  history.  But 
not  a  soul  in  Anasquoit,  nor  in  Three  Corners,  nor  in  all 
America,  nor  in  all  the  world  for  that  matter,  suspected 
the  sinister  import  of  that  date;  not  a  soul,  save  the 
handful  of  royal  gangsters  who,  upon  that  day  at  Potsdam 
perfected  their  nefarious  scheme  to  loot  and  pillage  the 
world,  a  scheme  to  be  launched  when  opportunity  beck 
oned  or,  as  some  who  place  no  period  to  the  turpitude 
of  the  Potsdam  marauders  believe,  when  the  opportunity 
had  been  created.  The  world  has  yet  to  learn  whether 
the  tragedy  at  Sarajevo  was  indeed  merely  the  deed  of 
a  poor,  deluded  fanatic  in  patriotism,  or  whether  it  was  the 
tail-end  of  a  fuse  lighted  in  Berlin — before  Potsdam — and 
intended  to  dynamite  the  world. 

Guido  had  paid  as  much  and  no  more  heed  to  the 
Sarajevo  murders  as  the  average  American.  It  was,  of 
course,  a  very  shocking,  very  detestable  episode  of  the 
sort  abounding  in  Continental  history.  True,  three 
American  presidents  had  in  the  past  met  death  by  assas 
sination,  but  it  was  felt  that  those  tragedies  had  nothing 
in  common  with  the  Serajevo  affair.  That  the  victims  in 
this  instance  had  been  in  the  Crowned  Head  class,  de 
graded  Serajevo  to  a  lower — a  sort  of  melodramatic  and 
subhuman — milieu.  The  mistrust  for  foreign  potentates 
bred  in  the  American  marrow  inhibited  America's  habitual 
sympathy  from  flowing  as  abundantly  as  usual,  sympathy 
for  kings  and  heirs  of  kings  being  a  kind  of  sentimental 

288 


YOUTH  289 

rubbish  with  which  Americans  felt  little  patience  excepting 
in  the  pages  of  a  novel  or  on  the  screen. 

On  the  whole  the  average  American  had  felt  inclined 
to  pat  himself  patronizingly  on  the  back  and  to  take  credit 
to  himself  for  what,  after  all,  was  an  accident  of  birth, 
namely  that  he  was  not  of  royal  lineage. 

The  possibility  of  Europe's  drifting  into  war  as  a  venge 
ful  upshot  of  the  lamentable  episode,  seemed  to  occur  to 
no  one — not  even  to  the  newspaper  editors,  who  are  sup 
posed  to  know  everything. 

On  the  heels  of  the  Serajevo  murder  which,  when  the 
last  is  said,  was  so  crudely  palpable  and  unmysterious  as 
to  miss  even  the  poor  merit  of  possessing  a  detective  story 
value,  came  the  Carman  murder.  Here  then,  was  a  murder 
after  the  heart  of  the  great  American  reading  public,  and 
its  slave,  the  newspaper  editor.  Here  was  mystery  and 
the  romance — sordid,  perhaps,  but  still  romance — of  an 
unhappy  marriage,  and  two  fair  women  involved  in  the 
plot.  Decidedly,  with  such  overwhelming  odds  against  it, 
Serajevo  could  not  hold  its  own  in  the  American  mind. 

A  surprise  was  in  store  for  our  hero  upon  his  arrival 
at  the  Geddes  home  on  Mountaintop,  off  Three  Corners. 
The  Geddes  homestead  was  quite  a  mansion,  spreading 
itself  comfortably  in  mid- Victorian  style  to  either  side  of 
the  broad  door,  as  if  acreage  were  of  no  consequence 
whatever.  The  graveled  walk,  broad  enough  to  accom 
modate  a  vehicle,  was  shaded  with  trees,  not  as  large  and 
as  fine  as  those  found  in  lower  altitudes,  but  far  better  than 
most  of  the  homes  on  that  sparse  Mountaintop  settlement 
could  boast  of.  The  entrance  to  the  grounds  was  marked 
by  two  pillars  of  rough  stone,  over  which  nasturtiums 
trailed  their  variegated  bloom,  and  across  these  two  pillars 
a  sign  was  slung,  bearing  the  inscription:  "Waldheim." 

Guido  expressed  his  astonishment  on  glimpsing  the 
German  name. 

"It's  the  name  of  the  home  in  Hanover  where  Grossvater 
Geddes  was  born,"  said  Janet,  quite  simply. 

Guido,  reduced  to  gaucherie  by  amazement,  blurted  out: 

"Grossvater  Geddes!  Is  your  father  a  German?  I 
thought  your  name  was  English." 

Janet  laughed. 

"One  would  think  it  was  a  crime  to  be  of  German  ex- 


290  THE  HYPHEN 

traction,"  she  said.  "How  horrified  you  seem!  Daddy 
is  very  proud  of  his  German  blood.  And  the  name  is  one 
of  those  names  which  are  both  English  and  German.  As 
the  two  languages  have  many  roots  in  common  there  is 
really  nothing  so  very  surprising  in  that." 

"Well,  I  admit  I  am  surprised,"  said  Guido.  "You  all 
seemed  so  very  American  to  me." 

"We  are  American,  of  course  we  are,"  said  Janet,  a 
little  indignantly.  "But  one's  got  to  have  European  blood 
of  some  description,  hasn't  one?  The  'Mayflower'  could 
not  possibly  have  brought  over  the  ancestors  of  all  Ameri 
cans  of  the  present  day." 

"True,"  Guido  assented. 

"Mother's  ancestry  is  partly  Scotch,  partly  Southern," 
Janet  continued.  "Father's  is  German  on  the  father's  side, 
Yankee  on  the  mother's.  You  will  love  Grossvater  Geddes. 
Everybody  does.  Why,  I  wouldn't  exchange  Grossvater 
Geddes  for  any  other  granddad  in  the  wide  world." 

Guido  comprehended  Janet's  enthusiasm  for  her  grand 
father  the  moment  he  saw  the  octogenarian.  Grossvater 
Geddes  was  slight  of  stature  and  frailly  built,  but  the 
slender  frame  told  of  resilience  and  stamina.  He  was  a 
very  dainty  old  gentleman.  He  carried  handkerchiefs  of 
the  sheerest  linen,  beautifully  initialed  in  hand  embroidery 
and  delicately  scented  with  Eau  de  Cologne.  His  waist 
coats,  too,  were  hand-embroidered.  His  shirts  were  deli 
cately  fluted.  Indoors,  for  warmth,  he  wore  short,  quaint 
little  coats  exclusively  tailored  in  golden  brown,  navy-blue, 
bottle  green  and  taupe  velvet.  On  coming  indoors,  he 
changed  immediately  from  walking  boots  to  slippers  of 
buff  suede,  and  in  the  evening  he  invariably  wore  pointed 
patent-leather  pumps  and  silk  hose.  His  complexion  was 
as  delicately  white  and  pink  as  a  girl's,  and  was  set  off 
to  best  advantage  by  his  thick  growth  of  curling,  snow- 
white  hair.  His  face  was  smooth-shaven,  and  one  could 
tell  at  a  glance  that  his  vocation  had  been  that  of  a 
musician.  He  had,  in  his  day,  enjoyed  quite  a  reputation 
as  a  pianist  and  it  was  his  custom,  as  Guido  was  to  learn, 
to  sit  down  at  the  piano  at  twilight  and  play  Chopin  and 
Beethoven  and  Bach. 

In  spite  of  these  super-refinements  of  appearance  and 


YOUTH  291 

toilet,  there  was  about  him  nothing  of  the  dandy,  nothing 
effeminate. 

His  elegance  in  manner  was  as  great  as  his  elegance 
of  person.  It  brought  to  mind  the  habitual  and  inborn 
elegance  of  a  French  courtier  of  a  generation  long  dead 
and  gone.  And  to  complete  the  portrait,  it  was  his  habit 
to  play  continually  with  a  small  gold  snuff-box,  studded 
with  rubies  and  emeralds.  He  played  with  it  as  some 
women  play  with  a  fan.  Guido  was  tormented  throughout 
an  entire  afternoon  wondering  what  the  jeweled  trifle  was. 

Now  the  taking  of  snuff,  like  the  eating  of  food,  may 
be  the  coarsest  or  the  most  luxuriously  delicate  of  opera 
tions  ;  it  may  be  a  mere  gorging,  stuffing,  cramming,  or 
a  ceremonious  rite.  The  dear  old  man,  we  may  be  sure, 
took  his  snuff  as  daintily  as  the  most  finished  of  actors 
in  a  romantic  play,  and  he  partook  of  tobacco  in  no  other 
form. 

His  English  was  heavy  and  clumsy,  and  he  spoke  German 
exclusively  to  his  son  and  Janet,  and  more  frequently  than 
not  to  his  daughter-in-law,  who  understood  but  could  not 
reply  in  German.  He  addressed  Guido  in  English,  but 
Guido,  recognizing  the  old  man's  foible,  and  influenced 
unconsciously  perhaps  by  his  dislike  for  imperfect  diction, 
drifted  naturally  enough  into  the  tongue  of  the  Fatherland 
in  replying. 

"Ach!"  Grossvater  Geddes  was  delighted  and  compli 
mented  the  lad  upon  the  purity  and  flexibility  of  his 
German. 

"Do  you  know,  Mother,"  Janet  said  privately  to  her 
mother,  "I  believe  that  that  is  the  real  reason  Daddy  asked 
Guido  up  here — to  please  Granddaddy." 

"Possibly,"  said  Mrs.  Geddes,  evasively. 

"He  might  have  admitted  it,  then,"  said  Janet,  adding: 
"Do  you  know,  Mother,  I  think  even  the  best  of  men,  like 
my  father,  are  terribly  stubborn  at  times." 

To  Guido  she  said: 

"You  made  a  hit  with  Grossvater  Geddes,  too.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  he'd  invite  you  to  his  room  before 
the  week  is  up." 

"He's  invited  me  to  come  to  his  room  this  evening,  after 
supper,"  said  Guido. 

"What,  after  just  twenty-four  hours!     It's  never  hap- 


292  THE  HYPHEN 

pened  before.  There  are  folks  Grossvater  has  known  for 
twenty  years,  and  they've  never  once  crossed  the  threshold 
of  his  room." 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  his  room?"  Guido  asked, 
curiously. 

"What's  the  matter  with  his — ?  It's  a  great  honor 
that's  being  paid  you.  What's  the — ?  Oh,  dear!  I  hope 
you'll  appreciate  all  his  treasures." 

"Of  course  I  shall,"  said  the  boy. 

"It  seems,"  said  Janet,  "that  you've  made  a  frightful 
hit  with  the  entire  Geddes  family."  After  a  moment, 
fearing  that  this  avowal,  which  included  herself,  might 
seem  forward  and  bold,  she  added :  "Excepting,  of  course, 
myself." 

She  said  it  so  seriously,  little  vixen  as  she  was,  that 
Guido  was  taken  back.  Considerably  perturbed,  he  in 
quired  : 

"Do  you  really  dislike  me?"  His  native  modesty  made 
it  seem  quite  likely  that  the  most  wonderful  girl  he  had 
ever  met  shouldn't  care  a  rap  about  him.  "If  you  don't 
want  me  here,  I'll  go  home  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  no,  I  wouldn't  have  you  do  that,"  said  mischievous 
Janet.  "You  may  stay,  of  course,  now  you've  come." 

"I  wouldn't  spoil  your  summer  for  anything,"  said 
Guido. 

"Who  said  you  were  going  to  spoil  my  summer?"  Janet 
demanded.  "If  you  go  home  to-morrow,  Daddy  will  know 
I've  done  something  to  you." 

"Then  what  shall  I  do?"  Guido  demanded. 

"Stay,  of  course." 

"Feeling  you  dislike  me?" 

"Silly,  I  never  said  so.  Oh,  Guido,  are  we  quarreling? 
And  what  are  we  quarreling  about?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  said  Guido,  miserably,  but 
he  did  know,  and  Janet  knew  that  he  knew.  He  looked 
so  utterly  woe-begone  that  she  decided  never,  never,  never 
to  tease  him  again. 

She  was  tormented  by  a  horrid,  shapeless  fear  when, 
having  previously  gone  to  his  room  to  dress  for  supper, 
he  came  downstairs  at  six  o'clock  and,  without  looking  to 
right  or  left  of  him,  dashed  from  the  house  and  walked 
rapidly  away,  taking  the  narrow  foot-path  that  followed  the 


YOUTH  293 

old  Indian  trail  down  the  mountain  past  chasms  and  ravines 
which,  especially  at  twilight,  were  treacherous  as  well  as 
deep. 

;  Janet  saw  all  this  through  the  half-open  slits  of  her 
shutter.  They  had  all  been  late  in  dressing  that  day,  and 
she  had  just  slipped  out  of  her  morning  dress  and  taken 
down  her  hair.  Without  waiting  to  pin  up  the  latter,  she 
flung  herself  back  into  the  morning  gingham.  Then,  like 
a  desperate  wild  thing,  she  tore  down  the  stairs  and  out 
of  the  house  and  down  the  dangerous  path  after  Guido. 
She  could  not  see  his  figure  ahead  of  her,  and  she  slack 
ened  her  pace  to  observe  the  underbrush  which  consisted 
of  mountain  laurel,  ragweed,  huckleberry  growth  and 
witch-hazel  shrubs,  that  lined  either  side  of  the  path.  Some 
ten  paces  ahead  of  her  was  an  accumulation  of  fallen  and 
decaying  tree  trunks  and  rocks  which  commanded  a  view 
of  the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain  rill.  Here,  on  a  boulder, 
desolately  staring  at  the  arid  scene,  sat  Guido. 

She  stole  up  behind  him  and  placed  her  soft  hands  over 
his  eyes.  He  did  not  shrink  or  cry  out,  but  sat  still  and 
mute  for  another  moment.  Then  he  gently  loosened  her 
hand,  saying: 

"Janet." 

"Guido.  I  did  not  mean  what  I  said.  I  was  teasing 
you.  Honest.  You  won't  be  silly  and  go  home,  will  you  ? 
Or  have  your  mother  send  you  a  telegram  recalling  you, 
the  way  people  do'  in  books?  Guido,  you'll  stay,  won't 
you?" 

The  sweet  girlish  face  looked  very  bewitching  as  she 
entreated  Guido.  She  was  a  little  frightened  and  subdued, 
and  her  eyes  looked  softer  than  was  their  wont,  her  lips 
were  more  tremulous. 

One  of  Guido's  inspirations  came  to  him. 

"I'd  hate  like  the  mischief  to  go  away,"  he  said,  "because 
you  see  the  entire  family  has  made  a  tremendous  hit  with 
me — including  yourself." 

"Oh,  Guido." 

"Oh,  Janet." 

They  laughed,  and  their  laughter  brought  back  the  color 
to  the  boy's  cheek  and  the  mischief  to  Janet's  eyes. 

"We  must  go  at  once,"  she  said,  "it's  almost  supper- 
time  and  I'm  not  dressed.'* 


294  THE  HYPHEN 

She  shook  her  black  mane  of  hair  as  she  spoke,  and  a 
strange  sensation  crept  over  the  boy.  The  romantic  trend  in 
his  nature  was  strong.  The  spot  where  they  stood  never  saw 
daylight,  for  primeval  pines  stood  all  about  them  like  hoary 
sentinels  commissioned  to  keep  out  the  tawdry  light  of 
day.  At  noon  it  was  twilight  here,  at  twilight  it  was  dusk. 

The  illusory  thought  came  to  him  that  this  was  not 
Janet  at  all,  not  a  creature  of  blood  and  flesh  like  himself, 
but  some  mountain  elf,  some  water-sprite  come  to  lure 
him  further  into  the  darkling  woods  to  some  mysterious 
and  untoward  fate.  The  spell  of  illusion  was  strong.  He 
could  not  throw  it  off  at  once. 

"Come,"  said  Janet,  nervous  under  his  romancing  eyes. 
"Come."  And  she  plucked  timidly  at  his  sleeve. 

Clasped  hands  swinging  between  them,  they  started  up 
the  path. 

"Let's  sing,"  said  Janet.  "It's  so  lonely  in  these  woods 
after  dark.  Let's  sing  some  German  song — it  will  please 
Grossvater  Geddes."  She  caught  sight  of  a  wonderful  old 
conifer  growing  at  the  extreme  brink  of  a  deep  gully,  its 
downstretching  roots  more  than  half -revealed,  and  looking 
in  its  gnarled  magnificence,  like  the  eerie  lair  of  some 
gnome  of  the  woods. 

To  slay  the  uncanny  feeling  that  was  plucking  at  her 
throat,  Janet  burst  rapturously  into  the  song  which  every 
little  German-speaking  child  is  taught  to  sing  standing 
under  the  Christmas  Tree: 

"O  Tannenbaum,  O  Tannenbaum, 
Wie  treu  sind  Deine  Blaetter. 
Du  gruenst  nich  nur  zur  Sommerzeit, 
Nein,  auch  im  Winter  wenn  as  schneit. 
O  Tannenbaum,  O  Tannenbaum, 
Wie  treu  sind  Deine  Blaetter." 

Her  grandfather  had  taught  her  the  song  when  she  was 
a  little  girl,  and  she  sang  it  in  her  clear  young  voice, 
enunciating  with  her  pretty  stilted  accent  which  made  the 
sonorous  German  words  seem  quaintly  thin  and  emaciated. 
Guido  thought  her  accent  adorable,  and  joined  in  the  song 
reluctantly  because  his  correct,  fuller  pronunciation  robbed 
her  words  of  their  elusive,  waxen  charm. 


YOUTH  295 

Thus  they  reached  home,  hands  swinging,  fresh  young 
voices  raised  in  song.  Janet's  predictions  concerning  her 
grandfather  were  correct.  The  old  man  stood  near  the 
nasturtium-covered  stone  pillar  waiting  for  them.  He  wore 
a  black  velvet  skull-cap,  soberly  embroidered  and  tasseled 
with  gold.  His  lips  smiled,  but  a  pathetic  look  of  sorrow 
for  griefs  long  dead,  for  recollections  half -forgotten  and 
associations  only  half-remembered,  looked  from  his  kindly 
old  eyes.  He  took  Janet's  soft  young  face  between  his 
thin,  deeply  veined  hands,  and  looked  at  her  long  and 
tenderly.  Then,  gently  inclining  the  girl's  head,  he  kissed 
her  brow. 

It  was  a  simple,  homely  picture,  entirely  lacking  in 
dramatic  values,  entirely  lyric  in  essence,  but  it  pleased 
the  lad  more  than  a  more  highly  colored  picture  might 
have  done.  It  made  a  lasting  impression  on  him.  He 
never  forgot  it. 

That  evening  after  supper  when  Grossvater  Geddes  rose 
to  lead  the  way  to  his  roof,  Guido  looked  questioningly  at 
Janet. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  whispered,  "Grossvater  Geddes  wants  his 
guests  all  to  himself." 

The  room  into  which  Guido  was  ceremoniously  ushered 
by  the  old  man  was  a  room  as  quaint  and  mysterious  of 
atmosphere  as  its  occupant.  And  the  atmosphere  was  dis 
tinctly  Teutonic.  There  were  beakers  of  all  sizes  made  of 
pewter,  handsomely  decorated  with  German  landscapes 
and  castles  in  which  Lohengrin  and  Tannhaeuser  might 
have  dwelt.  There  were  figurines  of  porcelain,  showing 
German  peasant  types  and  courtiers  of  the  age  of  Frederick 
the  Great.  There  were  bookcases  filled  with  German  lexi 
cons  and  classics,  wood-cut  reproductions  of  Albrecht 
Duerer  and  steel  engravings  after  Kaulbach  perpetuating 
scenes  from  Schiller,  Goethe  and  Shakespeare.  There  were 
wonderful  old  pipes  with  beautifully  painted  porcelain 
bowls;  old  pastel  paintings  of  ancestors  so  remote  that 
they  wore  peruques  and  cascades  of  lace  and  coats  of 
salmon-colored  or  coral-pink  brocade.  There  was  an  ink 
stand  of  Dresden  china,  dating  back  to  a  period  when  all 
educated  Germany  was  under  French  influence,  a  marvel 
ous  affair,  very  ornate,  with  sand-box  and  quill-holders. 
There  were  silver  candelabra  and  beautiful  old  salvers — 


296  THE  HYPHEN 

heavy  old  plate  which  had  been  in  the  Geddes  family  for 
centuries. 

The  old  man,  having  displayed  his  treasures,  poured  out 
some  good  old  port  for  his  young  guest,  and  bade  him  be 
seated. 

Then,  from  the  drawer  of  a  marvelously  carved  writing 
desk  at  which  Guido  was  sitting,  he  took  a  brace  of  old 
pistols,  handsomely  mounted  with  silver. 

"I  fought  with  these  in  '48,"  he  said,  simply. 

Guido  examined  the  old-fashioned  weapons  almost 
reverently. 

"Many  a  good  man  whom  Germany  could  ill  spare  sought 
refuge  in  America  after  that  fateful  year,"  the  old  man 
continued. 

"I  know  one  of  them,"  said  Guido,  proud  to  be  able 
to  contribute  actively  to  the  conversation,  "our  old  family 
physician  and  friend,  Dr.  Koenig,  is  an  Achtundvierziger." 

"Not  Dr.  Robert  Koenig,  from  Frankfurt-on-der-Oder  ?" 

"That's  he,"  said  Guido,  nodding. 

"I  knew  him  well.  We  went  to  school  together,"  said 
Grossvater  Geddes.  The  two  men  had  corresponded  for 
years  after  reaching  their  mutual  asylum  of  safety.  At 
the  time  of  the  Civil  War,  when  politics  absorbed  every 
thinking  man,  they  had  quarreled.  The  quarrel  had  been 
patched  up,  but  the  friendship  had  remained  weak-kneed 
and  white-corpuscled.  The  intervening  years  had  now 
erased  all  impressions  from  Grossvater  Geddes'  memory 
save  only  those  early  ones  which  touched  the  heroic  fight 
which  he  and  Dr.  Koenig  and  others  had  made  for  German 
freedom. 

Nothing  would  do  but  Grossvater  Geddes  must  write 
his  old  friend  that  very  night,  inviting  him  urgently  to 
spend  a  week  or  a  fortnight  at  "Waldheim."  Dr.  Koenig 
accepted  and  announced  his  visit  for  the  following  Satur 
day. 

It  was  an  affecting  sight  to  see  the  two  old  men  greet 
each  other.  They  shook  hands  for  about  five  minutes, 
so  it  seemed  to  the  onlookers,  and  their  emotions  seemed 
to  fluctuate  between  tears  and  laughter.  They  made  an 
admirable  foil  one  for  the  other.  Beside  dainty  Gross 
vater  Geddes,  with  his  well-tailored,  distinctive  raiment, 
and  his  shell-pink  and  white  complexion,  Dr.  Koenig,  in 


YOUTH  297 

his  ready-made  clothes  and  heavy  boots,  iQoked  like  a 
weatherbeaten  and  rugged  veteran,  as  he  was. 

"You  are  so  strong  and  hale,"  said  Grossvater  Geddes 
to  Dr.  Koenig,  "that  you  remind  me  of  a  well-seasoned 
old  German  oak." 

"Why  a  German  oak?"  Dr.  Koenig  demanded,  in 
stantly  chagrined.  "English  oaks  are  quite  as  strong  and 
quite  as  fine.  And  so  are  American  oaks.  And  so,  I  do 
not  doubt,  are  Japanese  oaks,  if  they  happen  to  have  oaks 
in  Japan." 

"And  do  you  like  Japan?"  Grossvater  Geddes  inquired, 
in  a  tone  of  mild  disapproval. 

"I  have  never  been  there,"  said  Dr.  Koenig,  curtly,  "and 
as  I  am  not  of  the  same  kidney  as  the  critic  who  never 
read  the  books  he  reviewed  for  fear  of  becoming  biased, 
I  am  incapable  of  forming  an  opinion." 

"I  should  have  asked  whether  you  like  the  Japanese?" 

"I  have  never  even  spoken  to  one,"  retorted  Dr.  Koenig. 
"How  then  can  I  say  whether  I  like  them  or  do  not  like 
them?"  His  tone  was  not  entirely  that  of  a  man  on  the 
defensive. 

"As  a  race?"  persisted  Grossvater  Geddes. 

"I  argue  from  the  particular  to  the  general,  from  the 
individual  to  the  race,"  replied  Dr.  Koenig.  "Do  you  re 
verse  that  method?" 

"Like  the  average  man,"  Grossvater  Geddes  replied,  "I 
form  my  opinion  largely  on  what  I  read." 

"Well,  I  don't,"  Dr.  Koenig  replied,  bluntly.  "I  form 
my  opinions  on  what  I  hear  and  see.  If  I  have  no  first 
hand  data,  I  trust  my  heart  and  conscience  and  common 
sense  rather  than  the  only  too  often  faulty  judgment  of 
others." 

"And  may  I  inquire  what  your  heart  and  your  conscience 
and  your  common  sense  tell  you  about  the  Japanese?" 
Grossvater  Geddes  inquired. 

"They  tell  me,"  Dr.  Koenig  replied,  sturdily,  "that  the 
Japanese  and  every  other  race  as  well  is  quite  as  good 
as  the  German  race." 

The  energy  of  this  reply  was  slightly  overdone  and 
Professor  Geddes  and  his  wife  exchanged  glances  of 
alarm.  The  conversation  was  taking  place  at  the  supper- 
table,  and  it  might  lead  none  could  say  whither. 


298  THE  HYPHEN 

"May  I  venture  to  inquire — do  you,  when  you  speak  of 
'every  other  race'  include  the  negro  race?"  Gross vater 
Geddes  inquired  in  the  meekest  of  tones. 

"Why  not?"  said  Dr.  Koenig.  "Have  the  negroes  had 
a  fair  chance  here  or  elsewhere?  England  is  the  only 
country  where  they  are  not  systematically  regarded  as  an 
inferior  race,  as  a  race  intended  by  the  Almighty  to  be  a 
race  of  servitors,  as  a  race  to  be  badgered  and  despised 
and  exploited.  I  am  a  staunch  American,  none  stauncher, 
I  trust,  but  I  tell  you,  alter  Freund,  in  its  treatment  of 
the  negro  this  country  has  fallen  far  below  its  principles." 

The  alarm  which  the  Professor  and  his  wife  had  previ 
ously  manifested  became  more  acute.  A  discussion  on  the 
issues  of  the  Civil  War  had  brought  about  the  rupture  be 
tween  the  two  old  friends.  Was  a  similar  discussion  to 
antagonize  them  anew?  But  before  Professor  Geddes 
could  plunge  into  the  troubled  waters  of  the  conversational 
stream,  to  stem  the  tide  of  discord,  Grossvater  Geddes 
inquired : 

"May  I  inquire,  Dr.  Koenig,  do  you  believe  in  the  in 
termarriage  of  the  white  and  the  negro  race?" 

"I  believe,  with  Lincoln,  that  because  I  am  in  favor  of 
treating  the  negro  fairly  it  does  not  follow  that  I  want 
to  take  a  negress  to  wife." 

"Apparently,"  said  Grossvater  Geddes,  sweetly,  "since 
you  are  a  bachelor,  you  did  not  want  to  take  any  woman 
to  wife." 

All  laughed,  laughed  more  heartily  than  the  jest  deserved 
in  their  belief  that  the  quarrel  which  had  seemed  imminent 
had  been  averted. 

Dr.  Koenig  said,  good-humoredly : 

"You  have  no  right  to  assume  that.  The  fact  that  I 
am  not  married  is  not  a  valid  reason  for  supposing  that 
I  did  not  wish  to  get  married.  Miss  Right  may  have  re 
fused  me,  or  I  may  never  have  met  her,  or,  like  Barkis, 
she  may  have  been  willing  but  died  before  the  nuptials 
were  celebrated.  Or  she  may  have  been  a  Mrs.  Right. 
There  are  a  dozen  contingencies  which  can  exculpate  me 
from  the  charge  of  being  willfully  blind  to  the  charms  of 
the  sex  of  which  we  have  two  such  fair  exemplars  present." 

He  bowed  with  stately  punctilio  of  a  bygone  age  to 
Mrs.  Geddes  and  to  Janet. 


YOUTH  299 

"And  do  you  really  believe  in  the  equality  of  all  races?" 
Grossvater  Geddes  came  back  to  the  main  topic  abruptly. 

"Well,  I  do  and  I  don't,"  Dr.  Koenig  rejoined.  "Politi 
cally — I  mean  as  regards  their  political  rights — they  are 
equal,  of  course.  Socially,  mentally,  culturally  there  is  as 
wide  a  divergence  between  different  races  as  there  is  be 
tween  individuals  of  the  same  race." 

"The  mental  and  cultural  qualifications  are  the  points  at 
issue,  of  course,"  said  Grossvater  Geddes.  "I  contend  that 
the  white  races  are  superior  not  only  to  the  black  race, 
which  is  self-evident,  but  to  the  yellow  races :  especially 
the  English,  German  and  French  are  the  Kulturtraeger." 

"Strictly  speaking,  English,  German  and  French  are 
names  of  nations,  not  of  races,  but  let  it  go  at  that.  You 
will  find,  however,  that  each  of  the  peoples  you  mention 
believe  themselves  to  be  the  elect.  You  will  find  that  each 
people — or  race — or  nation — believes  firmly  in  its  own 
destiny.  You  yourself  believe  in  the  destiny  of  the  German 
people." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  Grossvater  Geddes  assented,  gravely,  "I  be 
lieve  that  our  race  is  a  very  great,  a  very  noble  race.  I 
believe  with  Goethe,  that  it  is  destined  to  achieve  great 
things.  I  believe,  furthermore,  that  every  people  that  de 
serves  being  called  great  believs  in  its  own  destiny,  in  its 
mission  to  humanity,  in  the  great  part  it  is  to  play  on  the 
stage  of  the  world." 

Guido  who,  like  the  rest,  had  listened  atentively  but  in 
silence  so  far,  here  broke  into  the  conversation. 

"Dostoievski  says  the  same  thing,"  he  exclaimed. 
"Neither  Dr.  Koenig  nor  Herr  Geddes  have  mentioned  the 
Russian  people.  Yet  they,  too,  are  a  very  great  people." 

"They  are  little  better  than  barbarians,"  said  Grossvater 
Geddes.  "What  little  culture  they  possess  they  received 
from  Germany.  Peter  the  Great,  barbarian  though  he  was 
himself,  had  enough  foresight  and  wisdom  to  appreciate 
what  German  influence  would  do  for  Russia." 

"But  the  Russians  themselves  dislike  and  despise  German 
influence,"  said  Guido.  "Their  bureaucratic  system  is  the 
worst  in  the  world — the  most  corrupt  and  the  most  dis 
honest.  And  the  nomenclature  by  which  their  officials  are 
known — H  of  rat,  Geheimrat,  etc.,  show  the  German  origin 
of  the  Russian  system." 


300  THE  HYPHEN 

"But  German  officials  are  notoriously  honest,"  said  Gross- 
vater  Geddes,  calmly,  while  Dr.  Koenig,  hugely  contented, 
listened  smilingly  to  this  testing  of  the  lad  who  was  to 
be  the  political  redeemer  of  the  world. 

"Yes,  that  is  so,  of  course,"  Guido  assented,  and  then 
suddenly  stopped  short.  He  had  of  a  sudden  become  con 
scious  that  all  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him.  It  occurred  to 
him  that  his  entry  into  the  dialogue  between  the  two 
octogenarians  might  justifiably  be  construed  as  impertinent. 
He  flushed  painfully,  and  was  about  to  subside  into  shamed 
silence,  but  a  reassuring  smile  from  Professor  Geddes 
braced  him  and  sent  him  back  into  the  arena,  armed,  as  he 
felt,  cap-a-pie.  The  Professor,  like  the  Doctor,  though  in 
ignorance  of  the  great  Political  Synthesis,  was  anxious  to 
see  the  lad  acquit  himself  creditably. 

"I  think,  sir,"  said  Guido,  addressing  Grossvater  Geddes, 
"if  you  don't  mind  my  saying  so,  this  merely  proves  that 
no  system  of  government  or  form  of  administration  can 
be  deliberately  imported  from  one  country  and  imposed 
upon  an  alien  race  without  their  consent.  The  Germans 
evolved  their  own  system,  or  it  was  evolved  for  them ;  but 
it  was  evolved  by  Germans  and  acquiesced  in  by  Germans. 
But  the  Russian  character  is  different.  It  is  multitudinous. 
It  is  a  little  of  everything.  It  is  everything.  It  is  terribly 
intense  and  terribly  sincere.  It  is  capable  of  the  most  ex 
traordinary  sacrifices." 

Grossvater  Geddes  seemed  somewhat  vexed. 

"Do  you  think  the  German  character  less  sincere,  less 
capable  of  great  devotion  than  the  Russian?"  he  inquired. 

"Ah,  sir,  I  should  hate  to  put  it  that  way,"  Guido  cried. 
"Each  race,  each  people,  has  a  genius  of  its  own — excels 
in  one  way  or  another,  and  the  ready-made  product  of  one 
people  will  not  do  for  another.  A  race,  like  an  individual, 
must  learn  certain  lessons  for  itself.  Certain  lessons  we 
cannot  learn  vicariously.  Each  race  has  its  destiny.  The 
trouble  begins  when  one  race  thinks  that  its  destiny  is  also 
the  destiny  of  another  race." 

Grossvater  Geddes  had  listened  in  growing  amazement 
to  the  polemics  of  this  mere  youngster. 

"And  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  he  inquired. 

"I  mean — well,  as  France  did  under  Napoleon ;  or 
Napoleon  for  France." 


YOUTH  301 

It  was  evident  that  the  boy  had  chosen  this  example  so 
as  to  avoid  giving  further  umbrage.  Grossvater  Geddes 
said: 

"And  as  Peter  the  Great  did?" 

"Well,  yes." 

"And  you  believe  that  Russia's  destiny  is  greater  than 
Germany's  ?" 

"It  is  different.  The  Germans  excel  in  method,  system, 
co-ordination,  co-operation.  Their  ideals  are — I  don't  mean 
to  be  offensive,  sir — utilitarian  and  materialistic." 

"Germany  has  always  been  considered  the  idealist  among 
nations,"  Grossvater  Geddes  exclaimed,  in  an  aggrieved 
voice. 

"By  themselves."  Guido  smiled.  "Perhaps  they  were — 
once.  But  now  they  pride  themselves  upon  quite  a  different 
quality,  do  they  not?  Now  they  claim  to  be  the  most 
economically  efficient  in  the  family  of  nations.  That  pre 
supposes  a  material,  not  a  spiritual  ideal." 

"It  presupposes  a  high  evaluation  of  spiritual  attributes 
such  as  dependability,  honesty,  industry,  frugality."  The 
aggrievedness  of  the  old  man  had  deepened.  Guido  was 
silent,  but  his  eloquent  eyes  showed  that  he  was  practicing 
chivalry,  not  nursing  defeat. 

"Guido !"  Dr.  Koenig  leaned  forward,  tense  with  in 
terest.  "You  have  not  yet  told  us — what  do  you  conceive 
to  be  Russia's  destiny?" 

"I  cannot  say,"  Guido  replied,  slowly.  "I  dare  say  it 
would  be  difficult  even  for  a  Russian  to  answer  that.  I 
think,  sir,  the  Russian  ideal  is  freedom." 

"The  same  as  ours?"  Dr.  Koenig  exclaimed. 

"I  meant — not  freedom  as  we  understand  it,  which  is 
freedom  from  interference  by  others,  liberty,  in  brief— but 
freedom  from  one's  self." 

"Go  on,"  said  Dr.  Koenig  and  the  Professor  simultane 
ously,  as  Guido  hesitated. 

"I  have  a  Russian  friend,"  Guido  resumed.  "Sergius 
Ivanovich  is  a  nobleman  and  very  rich.  Yet  he  lives  here 
in  abject  poverty,  refusing  to  touch  one  rouble  'of  his  vast 
income.  He  allows  the  peasants  on  his  estate  to  profit  by 
that  income,  unused  by  himself  because  unearned  by  him 
self.  But  his  thought  was  not  so  much  to  help  others  as 
to  divest  himself  of  his  riches,  thus  to  strike  the  shackles 


302  THE  HYPHEN 

of  the  flesh  from  his  soul,  in  order  to  give  his  soul  a  fair 
chance  to  find  itself.  He  is  the  finest  Christian  I  know. 
Yet  he  holds  beliefs  that  would  be  very  distasteful  to  the 
average  American  follower  of  Christianity.  He  is  partially 
under  Buddhistic  influence,  partly  under  the  influence  of 
religions  still  older  and — to  the  American  mind — more  in 
credible.  He  never  seems  to  consider  his  comfort  and  well- 
being.  He  does  not  think  about  this  world.  He  lives  in 
thought  of  the  eternal.  All  he  asks  is  that  his  soul  be  in 
unison  with  the  Divine  Principle,  be  of  service  to  it,  and 
fulfill  the  purpose  of  its  being.  That  is  happiness  as  he 
sees  it.  I  think,  but  I  am  not  sure,  that  he  approaches  the 
passive  Buddhist  ideal  of  Nirvana  more  closely  than  the 
Christian  ideal  of  active  salvation." 

Dr.  Koenig  regarded  Guido  from  between  narrowed  eye 
lids,  a  sign  that  he  was  deeply  moved.  He  could  have 
intoned  a  hallelujah.  The  boy  with  a  destiny,  the  boy  with 
No-Bias,  the  boy  with  a  Political  Synthesis  to  perform, 
was  showing  his  mettle.  The  Trying  out  of  the  Experi 
ment  in  Spiritual  Eugenics  was  to  be  the  most  interesting 
and  moving  spectacle  which  he  had  ever  witnessed. 

Grossvater  Geddes  was  subtly  troubled.  It  was  easy  to 
see  that  Guido  had  opened  up  an  entirely  new  vista  of 
thought  for  the  old  man. 

"All  that  sounds  very  vague,"  he  said,  feebly. 

"It  is  vague,"  Guido  assented,  generously.  "Sergius 
Ivanovich  is  vague.  He  is  in  a  state  of  constant  flux.  He 
is  the  most  variable  person  I  know  and  the  most  sincere." 

"But,"  Grossvater  Geddes  objected,  "from  what  you  have 
said  I  really  cannot  form  an  idea  of  Russia's  destiny." 

"Perhaps  she  hasn't  any,"  said  Guido,  "perhaps  she  omy 
thinks  she  has.  Perhaps,  again,  the  very  fluidity  which  is 
Russia  is  destined  to  act  as  a  leaven,  a  spiritualizing  ferment 
for  other  nations.  And — "  he  spoke  with  great  gentleness, 
"who  shall  say  but  that  the  German  Martha  will  not  in 
the  end  be  one  of  greater  benefit  to  humanity  than  the 
Russian  IVJary." 

Grossvater  Geddes  smiled.  The  compliment  was  neatly 
turned.  He  was  pleased.  Still  the  thought  which  Dr. 
Koenig  and  Guido  had  jointly  planted  in  his  heart,  rankled. 

"Personally,"  he  said,  "I  believe  that  Germany  has  a 
great  destiny." 


YOUTH  303 

"Personally,"  said  Dr.  Koenig,  "I  don't.  I  have  no 
faith  in  Germany  and  the  Germans.  After  1848!  After 
the  fiasco!  Alter  Freund,  how  can  you  pin  your  faith  to 
Germany  after  what  you  and  I  and  hundreds  of  others 
went  through  in  that  dreadful,  splendid,  harrowing,  glori 
ous  year?  You  are  an  American  citizen,  be  an  American 
in  heart  as  well." 

"I  am,  I  am!"  the  old  musician  cried,  excitedly. 
"Politically,  my  ideals  are  identified  with  America.  I  would 
never  wish  to  return  to  Germany,  or  to  live  there,  or  to 
become  a  German  subject  again.  If  I  had  fifty  more  years 
to  live,  as  I  have  barely  five,  I  would  wish  to  spend  all  of 
them  in  America.  But  this  need  not  preclude  my  belief 
that  the  German  race  is  the  finest  on  earth.  Americans 
aren't  a  race  at  all,  they  are  merely  a  people." 

"And  you  call  yourself  an  American!"  Dr.  Koenig  ex 
ploded,  wrath  fully,  and  Guido  said,  speaking  with  intent 
eagerness : 

"But,  sir,  we  are  a  race,  a  composite  race,  of  course,  but 
a  race  for  all  that." 

The  three  men  laughed,  and  Professor  Geddes  said, 
speaking  for  the  first  time: 

"Well,  young  man,  you  are  no  better  than  the  Germans, 
the  French,  the  English  or  the  Russians.  You,  too,  believe 
in  the  destiny  of  your  nation." 

Guido  was  considerably  taken  aback.  He  tried  to  brazen 
it  out,  but  a  spasmodic  "Well!"  was  the  most  eloquent 
retort  he  could  produce. 

Come,  now,  the  truth.  If  you  could,  would  you  not 
impose  our  form  of  government  upon  all  other  peoples?" 
Professor  Geddes  continued. 

"No,"  said  Guido,  stoutly,  "why  should  I?  The  French 
have  established  a  republic  which  suits  them  quite  as  well 
as  our  republic  suits  us.  England,  they  say,  is  a  democracy 
in  all  but  name.  Then  why  should  we  think  that  our  form 
of  government  would  be  better  for  them  than  their  own?" 

"Very  good,"  said  Professor  Geddes.  "And  tell  me, 
Guido,  do  you  perfectly  understand  the  difference  between 
a  republic  and  a  democracy?  What  are  we?  And  which  is 
the  better  form,  and  why?  You  used  the  terms  loosely 
just  now." 

Guido  squirmed  uneasily.    To  have  a  volley  of  precisely 


304  THE  HYPHEN 

frameu  questions  requiring  precisely  worded  answers  flung 
at  him  in  the  presence  of  almost  half  a  dozen  people  gave 
him  the  sense  of  an  examination  in  presence  of  the  school- 
board. 

Dr.  Koenig  leaned  back  contentedly  in  his  chair.  He 
was  satisfied  by  this  time  that  the  boy's  judgment  was 
sound;  which,  of  course,  is  only  another  way  of  saying 
that  Dr.  Koenig  was  certain  Guido  would  agree  with  Dr. 
Koenig  on  all  salient  points.  Had  Dr.  Koenig  biased  him? 
The  excellent  man's  ear  tingled  as  the  suspicion  occurred 
to  him.  He  acquitted  himself  almost  instantly  of  the 
charge.  Guido  had  spoken  of  matters  upon  which  he  had 
never  touched  with  the  boy  in  conversation,  deeming  him 
much  too  young.  Well,  at  any  rate,  the  boy's  judgment 
had  proper  foundation  and  root. 

Quoth  Guido  in  reply  to  Professor  Geddes : 

"We  began  life  as  a  republic,  sir,  but  we  are  now  a 
democracy.  I  think  a  republic  would  be  the  ideal  form 
of  government  if  one  might  be  sure  that  the  men  of  greatest 
ability  were  also  men  of  probity.  But  in  a  republic  there 
is  a  constant  danger  that  a  hereditary  aristocracy  may 
ensue.  In  theory  a  democracy  is  not  as  good  as  a  republic, 
but  it  is  infinitely  safer.  And  it  is  fairer  and  more  honest 
— more  humanly  honest,  I  mean." 

"Very  good,"  said  the  Professor  approvingly.  He  sought 
his  wife's  eye,  then  looked  at  Janet.  The  girl's  eyes  were 
bent  upon  Guido  in  mute,  self-forgetful  adoration.  The 
professor  experienced  a  pang.  For  a  while  he  would  have 
wished  his  little  girl  to  reserve  such  looks  exclusively  for 
her  parents. 

Janet's  expression  did  not  escape  her  mother.  Later,  in 
the  privacy  of  her  apartment,  she  said  to  her  husband: 

"Well,  Professor,  your  neutralizing  agent  seems  to  have 
a  very  powerful  action." 

"My  dear!"  expostulated  the  Professor,  who  had  ex 
pected  something  of  this  sort  from  his  spouse. 

"Aren't  you  pleased?"  the  lady  continued.  "I  confess, 
I  am  not  nearly  as  much  displeased  as  I  expected  to  be." 

"From  you,  Jane,  that  is  a  great  deal." 

"Of  course,  Professor,  no  parent  considers  the  choice  of 
her  son  or  daughter  just  right,  unless  it  happens  to  coincide 
with  its  own.  Doubtless  Mrs.  Hauser  will  have  a  dozen 


YOUTH  305 

and  one  objections  to  Janet.  But  we  live  in  a  civilized 
era,  and  so  we  shall  swallow  our  disappointment  and  our 
discontent  and  accept  congratulations  as  if  the  match  were 
the  consummation  of  our  most  ardent  desires." 

"You  speak  as  if  the  thing  were  an  accomplished  fact," 
said  Professor  Geddes. 

"It  is — as  far  as  our  daughter  is  concerned." 

"Jane — are  you  tormenting  me  ?" 

"No,  Professor.  Now  my  principal  fear  is  that  the  boy 
will  not  reciprocate  Janet's  love.  There  is  that  possibility, 
of  course,  and  it  is  a  tragic  one.  Janet  has  something  of 
each  of  her  parents  in  her  make-up.  We  are  both  senti 
mental  fools,  so  that  she  has  inherited  a  double  portion  of 
constancy  in  love." 

"My  dear!" 

"Yes,  Ned.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  admit  that  if  you  had 
not  loved  me  it  should  have  broken  my  heart." 

"Jane,  I  adored  you  the  moment  I  saw  you!  Surely, 
this  boy  has  eyes  as  well  as  heart.  How  could  any  boy 
help  falling  in  love  with  our  little  girl?" 

"Ah — love  goeth  where  it  listeth.  The  boy  is  fine — 
very.  That  will  make  it  the  harder  for  Janet  if  he  does 
not  love  her." 

"But  he  will — he  must!"  the  Professor  cried,  quite  in 
dignantly. 

His  wife  smiled  indulgently. 

"Coercion  in  love?  How?"  she  inquired,  ironically. 
"Poor  Janet.  She  is  myself  at  that  age.  The  average  girl 
is  content  to  reflect  the  emotions  of  the  man — if  she  pleases 
him  well  and  good,  if  she  doesn't,  well  and  good  also.  But 
Janet's  heart  has  initiative.  Well,  we  will  see." 

"My  dear,  I'll  ship  the  boy  home  to-morrow,"  cried  the 
Professor. 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Mrs.  Geddes  with 
determination.  "You'll  kindly  be  as  nice  as  nice  can  be  to 
him.  Would  you  lock  the  stable  after  the  colt  has 
escaped  ?" 

The  Professor  said  no  more.  He  lapsed  into  profound 
gloom.  A  half-hour  later  his  wife  found  him  sitting  in 
the  same  position  in  which  she  had  left  him,  his  right  boot 
in  one  hand,  its  mate  on  the  left  foot. 

The  Professor  was  not  the  only  victim  of  overstimulated 


306  THE  HYPHEN 

* 

cerebration  at  "Waldheim"  that  night.  Pleasurable  emo 
tion,  quite  as  much  as  abject  misery,  desires  fellowship. 
Dr.  Koenig  had  felt  considerable  hesitation  as  to  his  wisdom 
in  accepting  the  invitation  of  Grossvater  Geddes  because 
he  seriously  doubted  his  own  ability  to  observe  silence 
concerning  the  Experiment.  The  evening's  debate  had 
strengthened  his  desire  to  take  Grossvater  Geddes  into  his 
confidence  a  hundredfold.  Old  Herr  Geddes  had  known 
Guido  the  First,  and  would  be  as  interested  as  Dr.  Koenig 
himself  as  to  the  outcome  of  Guide's  education.  The  in 
terest  which  Dr.  Koenig  felt  was  as  far  removed  from 
vulgar  curiosity  as  can  be;  it  was  a  superlatively  refined 
emotion  possible  only  to  one  who  like  himself  had  an 
unappeasable  hunger  for  everything  pertaining  to  the  evo 
lution  of  the  race.  Most  persons  were  sciolists  or  vul 
garians  or  both.  It  would  be  casting  pearls  before  swine 
to  apprise  such  as  these  of  the  Great  Experiment.  But 
his  alter  Freund  was  not  merely  a  connoisseur  in  music 
and  art,  he  was  a  connoisseur  in  human  nature  as  well, 
though,  according  to  Dr.  Koenig's  opinion,  he  was  not  a 
judge. 

In  brief,  the  honest  old  physician  found  himself  that 
evening  in  the  unenviable  position  of  a  man  seated  before 
a  bottle  of  rare  old  wine,  with  no  one  to  bear  him  company. 
Until  midnight  he  tossed  uneasily  on  his  pillow.  Then 
he  rose  to  prepare  himself  a  sleeping  powder.  His  room 
adjoined  that  of  Grossvater  Geddes.  The  two  old  friends 
were  in  a  wing  by  themselves,  a  broad  hall  dividing  their 
rooms  from  the  other  sleeping  apartments. 

Dr.  Koenig  heard  something  scratch  at  his  door.  He 
thought  it  a  mouse  and  reached  for  his  boot.  Just  then 
the  scratching  was  augmented  by  a  whisper. 

"I  cannot  sleep,"  whispered  the  voice  of  Grossvater 
Geddes.  "Can  you?" 

Dr.  Koenig  cautiously  opened  his  door  and  was  invited 
into  the  adjoining  apartment  by  means  of  opulent  signs. 
The  two  old  men,  wrapped  in  their  bathrobes,  tiptoed  into 
the  larger  of  the  two  apartments. 

"Let  us  talk  a  little  more,"  said  Grossvater  Geddes,  "it 
is  so  long  since  we  have  seen  each  other."  And  he  pro 
duced  his  historic  port. 

There  is  a  limit  to  human  endurance.    The  wine  of  rare 


YOUTH  307 

vintage  undermined  what  remained  of  Dr.  Koenig's  vir 
tuous  resolution  to  say  nothing  about  the  Experiment.  He 
unbosomed  himself  conce/ning  the  Synthesis  to  his  old 
friend,  who  listened  as  attentively  as  Dr.  Koenig  could 
have  wished.  Dawn  streaked  the  horizon  with  pallid  lines 
of  light  before  the  two  old  friends  finally  separated. 

Their  new  secret  helped  to  bridge  the  wide  gulf  of  years 
which  had  separated  them.  They  thoroughly  enjoyed  their 
holiday.  They  bickered  a  good  deal,  it  is  true,  but  life 
had  taught  both  moderation,  and  although  there  was  much 
spirited  debate,  there  was  no  anger.  They  enjoyed  bicker 
ing;  they  enjoyed  even  more  their  mutual  and  individual 
recollections  of  the  Year  Forty-eight.  That,  after  all,  had 
been  the  pivotal  point  of  their  existence. 

Guido  loved  to  sit  with  the  two  old  men  and  listen  to 
their  reminiscences.  He  learned  from  them  by  word  of 
mouth  more  of  the  import  of  modern  German  history  than 
he  had  learned  at  school.  Some  facts  were  merely  glanced 
at,  hinted  at.  But  Guido  was  shrewd.  Names  fell  from 
the  lips  of  the  two  old  men  uttered  with  reverence  and 
admiration  which  had  been  deemed  of  such  trivial  im 
portance  in  school  that  Guido  had  not  even  memorized 
them.  Gneisenau,  Scharnhorst,  Stein,  Hardenburgh,  An 
dreas  Hofer  were  referred  to  again  and  again.  Guido 
gleaned  from  what  he  heard  that  these  had  been  men  of 
exalted  virtue,  true  world  patriots,  men  of  whom  any  race 
and  any  country  might  have  been  proud,  men  who  touched 
the  summit  of  courage  and  civic  unselfishness.  Why  had 
so  little  been  made  of  them  by  teacher  and  text-book  ?  Why 
so  much  of  the  monotonous  procession  of  Kurfuersts, 
Princes  and  Kings?  He  heard  for  the  first  time  of  Lieu 
tenant  Klatt,  the  friend  of  Frederick  the  Great,  at  whose 
execution  Frederick,  then  Crown  Prince,  had  been  forced 
to  be  present  by  his  father,  a  piece  of  revolting  barbarity 
rendered  the  more  odious  by  the  fact  that  the  crime  for 
which  Klatt  was  condemned  to  suffer  death  consisted  in 
helping  the  Crown  Prince  in  his  attempt  to  escape  from 
the  parental  roof.  His  home  had  been  rendered  insuffer 
able  to  Frederick  owing  to  the  vulgarities  and  brutalities 
of  his  woefully  under-educated  and  tyrannical  father, 
whose  sole  relaxation  consisted  in  orgies  of  smoking,  and 
who  beat  the  Prince  unmercifully  with  his  own  flute,  an 


r3o8  THE  HYPHEN 

instrument  which,  since  it  presupposed  refinement  of  taste, 
was  disapproved  of  by  the  king. 

Guido,  it  must  be  remembered,  had  been  taught  German 
history  very  thoroughly.  But  he  had  been  taught  it  in  a 
German  school,  calling  itself  German- American,  by  German 
teachers  and  from  German  text-books.  He  became  so  far 
interested  in  checking  up  the  disparities  of  German  history 
as  he  had  learned  it  and  as  these  two  old  men  diagnosed 
it  and  partly  had  lived  it  that  he  wrote  home,  asking  his 
mother  to  send  him  his  old  German  history.  He  re-read  it 
one  night.  It  dawned  upon  him  then,  during  that  night's 
vigil,  that  the  woof  of  history  quite  as  much  as  the  woof 
of  a  tangible  fabric,  can  be  colored.  The  complexion  of 
the  history  of  Germany — so  it  seemed  to  him  now — had 
always  appeared  odd  when  the  deadly  moral  parallel  of 
American  history  was  applied  to  it.  It  now  seemed  not 
merely  odd  but  reprehensible.  The  day  was  near  at  hand 
when  its  enormity,  its  preposterousness  was  to  burst  upon 
the  boy  in  a  blaze  of  unholy  light. 

Dr.  Koenig  had  been  invited  for  a  week  or  a  fortnight 
or  for  as  long  as  he  would  stay.  He  loitered  on  at  "Wald- 
heim,"  prolonging  his  visit  from  day  to  day,  from  week  to 
week. 

Cecil  Lewes,  the  English  boy  whom  Guido  had  been 
invited  to  neutralize,  arrived  a  week  after  Dr.  Koenig. 
He  was  a  fair,  shy  boy,  with  a  face  like  a  girl's.  Guido 
had  never  met  an  English  boy  before,  and  in  thinking  of 
the  English,  had  made  the  mistake  which  the  average 
German-American  makes — he  thought  the  Englishman  an 
accentuated  variety  of  the  Anglo-American.  He  was  sur 
prised  to  find  Cecil's  savor  distinctly  different  from  that 
of  the  American  boys  whom  he  had  known.  He  was  for 
one  thing  less  sophisticated  and  less  slangy.  He  showed 
an  innocent  zest  in  life  and  a  sensitiveness  to  fine  shades 
that  delighted  Guido.  With  it  all  Cecil  was  the  least  em 
phatic  person  Guido  had  ever  come  in  contact  with.  His 
manner  of  saying  things,  even  things  in  which  his  own 
interest  was  keen,  was  diffident.  Yet  somehow  he  never 
failed  of  his  effect.  His  manner  was  so  very  diffuse  and 
inconsequential  that  at  times  it  seemed  light,  even  flippant. 
Yet  Cecil  was  neither  light  nor  flippant.  He  was  flippant 
as  little  as  he  was  emphatic. 


YOUTH  3o9 

Guido  liked  Cecil's  way  of  doing-  things — his  way  of 
speaking,  of  walking,  of  moving  about.  He  was  a  very 
well-bred  lad,  and  Guido  thought  Cecil's  manner  toward 
his  elders  and  toward  Mrs.  Geddes  and  Janet  the  last  word 
in  perfection  although  his  own,  if  he  had  only  known  it, 
was  quite  as  good. 

The  enzyme  of  No-Bias  was  in  serious  jeopardy  those 
days. 

Cecil,  being  English  and  athletic,  was  an  indefatigable 
walker.  He  suggested  a  day's  walking-tour  one  morning 
after  breakfast.  Guido  had  been  the  merest  amateur  at 
pedestrianism,  but,  Dr.  Koenig  being  out  of  ear-shot,  he 
threw  prudence  to  the  winds  and  went  off  with  Janet  and 
Cecil  for  a  day's  tramp. 

He  was  desperately  tired  the  next  day,  but  not  ill.  Dr. 
Koenig,  however,  who  had  been  terribly  exercised  on 
learning  that  Guido  had  gone  off  for  a  day's  hike,  insisted 
upon  his  resting  in  bed  the  better  part  of  the  next  day, 
explaining  to  Cecil  that  the  day's  tramp,  with  an  hour  at 
the  oars  thrown  in  for  good  measure,  might  have  proved 
disastrous  for  Guido.  Cecil  showed  little  concern.  Dr. 
Koenig  thought  him  callous  whereas  he  was  merely  prac 
ticing  the  Anglo-Saxon's  shibboleth  of  showing  no  emotion 
when  most  profoundly  moved. 

A  few  days  later  he  asked  Guido : 

"I  say,  what  made  you  go  for  that  long  tramp  when 
you  knew  it  might  make  you  most  aw  fly  ill?" 

"I  really  haven't  bothered  to  analyze  my  motive  in  going," 
Guido  replied,  lazily  sucking  at  a  sassafrass  root.  They 
were  sitting  in  the  gully  under  the  lofty  conifers  near 
the  tiny  rill,  which,  since  there  had  now  been  plenty  of 
rain,  leaped  gayly  from  stone  to  stone,  flashing  like 
mercury. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  wish  you  would  analyze 
them,"  Cecil  rejoined.  "I'm  awf'ly  interested." 

"Why  should  I  mind?"  Guido  asked.  "But  I'm  dis 
gustingly  lazy  just  now.  So  continue  your  prodding.  It 
may  help  me  to  think." 

Cecil  laughed  his  shy,  noiseless  laugh. 

"Were  you — I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  suggesting  it — 
were  you  too  proud  to  let  me  know  about  your  trouble  ?" 


3io  THE  HYPHEN 

"No.  I  hope  I'm  not  disappointing  you — but  I  never 
thought  about  being  ashamed  of  it  at  all." 

"Were  you — mind  you,  I'm  questioning  you  with  your 
express  permission — were  you  in  a  defiant  mood,  Guy?" 

Guido  pondered  this. 

"I  believe,"  he  said,  finally,  "that  mentally  as  well  as 
physically  I  am  too  flaccid  for  defiance.  I'm  afraid  there 
isn't  a  grain  of  defiance  in  me." 

"I  don't  think  that's  a  deficiency  you  need  regret,"  said 
Cecil.  "I  detest  defiant  persons.  They  are  forever  ferret 
ing  about  for  something  to  vex  them.  Perhaps  you  mis 
trusted  your  physician's  judgment." 

"Never  thought  of  old  saw-bones,"  said  Guido.  "I  don't 
mean  dear  old  Doc  Koenig  by  that,  but  the  New  York 
chap  who  painted  my  future  in  such  funereal  colors." 

"I'm  afraid  my  ingenuity  is  exhausted,"  said  Cecil.  "I 
have  no  more  suggestions  to  make." 

"It  was  like  this,"  said  Guido,  suddenly  alert.  "It 
wasn't  a  matter  of  thought  at  all — just  pure  feeling.  There 
are  many  things  I've  wanted  to  do  all  my  life  and  didn't 
do  because  I  was  told  it  would  be  suicidal  to  do  them. 
Hurts  horribly,  a  physical  disability  like  that.  I  think  I 
went  for  that  hike,  though  I  knew  it  was  bound  to  make 
me  uncomfortable  even  if  it  did  not  seriously  injure  me, 
because  I  was  so  sick  and  tired  of  the  pain  of  holding 
back." 

Cecil  listened  with  an  abstracted  air. 

"That's  rather  a  good  reason,"  he  said.  "I've  got  to 
think  that  over.  Do  you  know?"  he  demanded  suddenly, 
"you  aren't  the  least  bit  like  other  Americans  I've  met." 

Guide's  pleasure  in  being  termed  an  American  was  marred 
by  Cecil's  comparison. 

"I'm  sorry  you  do  not  think  me  a  real,  thorough  Ameri 
can,"  he  said. 

"I  didn't  mean  that,"  said  Cecil,  quickly.  "Of  course, 
you're  a  good  American — all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  the 
American  boys  I  met  were  mostly  interested  in  football 
and  things  like  that.  I  like  cricket  and  golf  myself.  But 
there  are  other  things,  too.  Americans  don't  seem  inter 
ested  in  getting  at  the  bottom  of  things  the  way  Europeans 
are.  I  think  it's  because  the  States  is  such  a  jolly  good 
country  to  live  in — folks  are  so  busy  just  living  and  getting 


YOUTH  311 

all  the  fun  they  can  out  of  life  that  they  don't  care  a  fig 
for  analyzing  life  and  talking  it  over  the  way  Europeans 
do.  They  think  it's  a  little  morbid  to  do  that." 

"I  am  afraid  you  do  not  entirely  approve  of  America," 
said  Guido,  feeling  a  sickish  sensation  in  the  pit  of  his 
stomach.  He  liked  this  English  boy  immensely,  but  he 
was  ready  to  withdraw  his  esteem  at  the  first  intimation 
of  hostile  censure  of  America  and  Americans. 

"I  approve  of  them  thoroughly,  and  I  like  them  thor 
oughly,"  Cecil  replied,  "but  it  is  with  them  as  I  say.  I 
think  they  are  the  most  warm-hearted  and  the  kindliest 
people  in  the  world.  Indeed,  I  do  not  know  what  would 
have  become  of  me  when  my  poor  parents  died  if  my 
American  cousins  hadn't  taken  me  in." 

"American  or  Canadian?" 

"American — though  they  are  livirig  in  Canada.  They've 
been  so  awfully  generous  with  me,  quite  incredibly  gener 
ous  in  every  way.  Much  as  they  love  their  own  country 
they've  never  once  urged  me  to  become  an  American 
citizen  when  I  come  of  age.  And  they  gave  me  the  choice 
between  an  English  university  and  an  American  college. 
I  chose  Anasquoit  College  because  it's  quite  the  best  of 
its  kind  and  it  would  cost  infinitely  more  to  send  me  abroad 
to  study." 

"And — if  you  don't  mind  my  asking — are  you  going  to 
become  an  American  citizen?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Cecil,  uncertainly.  "I'm  tremen 
dously  in  doubt.  I  love  England.  I  love  America.  This 
is  the  way  I  put  it  to  myself :  If,  in  case  of  war  between 
the  two  countries,  I  should  not  care  to  fight  for  America, 
and  against  England,  then  I  have  no  right  to  ask  for  ad 
mission  to  American  citizenship." 

"Why  imagine  such  a  horrible  thing?"  Guido  asked, 
frowning. 

"Well,  you  ought  to  be  able  to  sympathize  with  me," 
Cecil  answered.  "I  imagine  you'd  have  a  few  bad  moments 
if  America  and  Germany  ever  went  to  war." 

Guido  stared. 

"Why,"  he  stammered,  "what's  Germany  to  me?"  He 
was  almost  too  amazed  for  speech.  "You  have  no  notion 
how  I  love  my  own  country,"  he  said,  a  little  indignantly, 


312  THE  HYPHEN 

"if  you  can  suppose  that  I  would  waver  in  my  allegiance 
for  the  hundredth  part  of  a  second." 

"The  feeling  of  race  is  strong  in  all  of  us,"  said  Cecil. 

"I  don't  believe  in  race  prejudice,"  said  Guido.  He  was 
now  launched  on  his  favorite  topic.  "Why,  that's  just 
why  America  is  to  wonderful — because  all  races  unite  to 
make  her  great.  Think  of  the  number  of  races  repre 
sented  in  the  United  States!" 

"We  have  as  many  or  more  in  the  British  Empire,"  said 
Cecil. 

"With  this  difference,"  said  Guido,  proudly.  "The 
British  Empire  accepted  them  where  they  found  them.  To 
us,  however,  to  America,  these  different  races  send  their, 
best  elements,  and  they  are  absorbed  willingly  into  our 
national  life,  glad  of  finding  here  a  haven." 

"Well,  a  good  many  Europeans  think  you  are  absorbing 
not  the  best  of  Europe  but  her  scum."  Cecil's  thoughtful- 
ness  robbed  his  words  of  all  offensivenes. 

"Do  the  English  think  so  ?" 

"I  think  not — at  least  not  the  more  intelligent  English. 
The  man  in  the  street,  him,  I  mean,  who  is  little  better 
than  the  scum  he  despises,  may  think  so.  But  on  the  Con 
tinent — I'm  sorry,  but  it's  true — the  educated  classes  do 
more  or  less  take  this  view." 

"But  why  in  heaven's  name  should  they?" 

"Well,  frankly,  Guy,  this  conglommeration  of  races  in 
the  States  is  the  one  thing  I  don't  like.  In  the  British 
Empire  the  different  races  are  more  or  less  segregated  in 
distinct  geographical  areas.  I  think  that's  safer.  I  hope 
I'm  not  offending  you  by  my  frankness." 

"I'm  intensely  interested,"  said  Guido,  leaning  on  his 
elbow. 

"I  believe  in  race — not  race  prejudice,  but  race  culture." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Guido. 

"It's  like  this,"  said  Cecil.  "Some  races  are  more  highly 
gifted  than  others — one  cannot  get  around  that.  Too 
great  an  influx  of  inferior  elements  m^y  in  time  undermine 
racial  health.  The  best  can  only  be  achieved  if  a  great 
race  is  not  handicapped  too  far,  isn't  impeded  beyond  a 
certain  point.  There  must  be  a  certain  unity  of  thought 
and  a  harmony  of  feeling  if  the  best  results  are  to  be 
achieved." 


YOUTH  313 

"Results  in  what?"  Guido  inquired. 

"In  everything — in  whatever  the  particular  race  excels 
in." 

"I  really  do  not  see  what  handicap  can  arise  from  differ 
ent  races  foregathering  here  as  they  do,"  Guido  exclaimed. 

"Well,  in  the  first  place,"  Cecil  began,  slowly,  "the  dif 
ferent  races  do  not  entirely  amalgamate  even  in  America. 
You  have  Italian  colonies  and  Greek  colonies  and  French 
colonies  right  in  the  heart  of  New  York  City.  And  the 
Germans  are  notoriously  clannish.  The  Chinese  keep  to 
themselves,  and  so  the  Armenians,  the  Japs  and  the 
negroes." 

"That  may  be  true  of  the  first  generation,"  said  Guido, 
"but  I  think  the  second  generation  is  partly  absorbed  and 
the  third  generation  is  not  only  absorbed  but  actually 
assimilated." 

"Possibly,"  Guido  conceded,  "but  I  do  not  see  what  you 
gain.  I  don't  see  how  many  different  elements  can  be 
fused." 

"They  inject  new  blood,"  suggested  Guido. 

"New  blood  is  not  necessarily  an  advantage,  providing 
the  old  blood  was  good,"  said  Cecil,  doggedly  determined 
to  defend  his  point. 

"Ah,"  cried  Guido,  "then  you,  too,  think  that  the  scum 
of  Europe  comes  to  our  shores?" 

"By  no  means,"  said  Cecil,  "but  I  do  believe,  in  fact  I 
think  it  is  an  incontrovertible  truth,  that  the  emigrants  are 
as  a  rule  not  highly  educated  representatives  of  their  re 
spective  races." 

"Well "  Guido  flung  out. 

"Now,"  said  Cecil,  "I'm  too  English,  you  know,  too 
democratic,  you  understand,  to  believe  that  the  most  highly 
educated  folks  are  necessarily  the  most  desirable.  My 
dear  mother,  who  died  when  I  was  only  twelve,  never  tired 
of  teaching  me  to  respect  the  rights  of  others,  however 
humble  their  walk  of  life,  and  to  esteem  their  latent  possi 
bilities.  She  taught  me  that  the  pauper's  child  may  possess 
qualities  of  heart  and  mind  which  place  him  higher  in  the 
human  scale  than  the  babe  in  the  royal  cradle — or  myself. 
I  am  grateful  to  her  for  teaching  me  that."  The  English 
boy  fell  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  continued: 

"You  spoke  of  America  as  a  haven  for  aliens.     If  they 


3H  THE  HYPHEN 

really  look  upon  America  as  that — if  only  the  courage  of 
despair  sends  them  to  your  shores,  then  I'm  afraid  you 
are  getting  the  scum  of  Europe  all  nicely  spotted  and 
streaked  with  yellow." 

"And  what  may  you  be  driving  at?"  Guido  inquired. 

"But  if  the  spirit  of  adventure  sends  them  across  the 
seas,  or  if  they  come  because  they  think  your  political 
principles  are  right,  then,  by  all  means,  you  are  getting 
if  not  the  best  yet  at  least  very  desirable  blood." 

"And  why  do  you  rate  the  spirit  of  adventure  as  high 
as  all  that?"  Guido  demanded. 

"Because,"  Cecil  rejoined,  "it  has  made  the  British  Em 
pire  what  it  is  to-day.  It  has  made  America  what  it  is. 
The  Puritans  of  New  England " 

"Came  here  to  worship  as  their  conscience  dictated," 
Guido  interrupted  his  friend,  almost  violently.  "Didn't 
they?" 

"I've  often  wondered,"  said  Cecil,  thoughtfully.  "I've 
often  wondered  if  there  was  not  some  undercurrent 
stronger  than  the  ostensible  reason.  I  mean  the  uncon 
scious  yearning  after  new  experiences,  after  adventure,  in 
brief." 

Guido  did  not  reply.  The  thought  was  startlingly  new 
and  left  him  bewildered.  His  mind  often  recurred  to  it. 

This  is  a  fair  sample  of  the  conversations  that  took 
place  almost  daily  between  these  two  young  men.  There 
is  not  a  choicer  emotion,  if  emotion  it  may  be  termed,  than 
the  pleasure  derived  from  intellectual  companionship.  Be 
fore  the  first  week  had  passed  the  two  boys  had  become 
fast  friends. 

Professor  Geddes  and  his  wife  were  hospitality  in 
carnate.  The  house  was  spacious,  the  servants  dependable, 
the  Professor's  purse  more  than  comfortably  lined. 

So  when  Janet,  whose  imagination  had  been  fired  by 
Guide's  references  to  Dobronov,  suggested  that  the  Russian 
be  invited,  Mrs.  Geddes  willingly  consented.  Perhaps  she 
was  seeking  to  neutralize  the  only  too  obvious  effect  of 
Guido. 

"Guido,"  said  Janet,  seating  herself  on  the  couch  in  her 
father's  library,  where  Guido,  comfortably  snuggled  in  a 
morris  chair,  sat  reading  his  beloved  Macaulay,  "Mother 


YOUTH  315 

would  like  you  to  invite  your  Russian  friend  for  a  week 
end,  if  you  care  to." 

Guido  did  not  at  once  reply.  He  had  a  keen  sense  of 
the  fitness  of  things  and  of  human  beings,  and  he  did  not 
think  that  Sergius  Ivanovich  would  fit  in  at  all  with  the 
Geddes  family.  He  was  sensitive  for  Dobronov  and  he 
feared  that  Janet  might  find  him  ridiculous  or  even  con 
temptible. 

"Well,"  said  Janet,  "you  don't  seem  to  take  kindly  to 
the  plan.  Fine  sort  of  a  friend  you  are.  I  should  think 
you'd  be  glad  to  have  Mr.  Sergius  What's-His-Name  up 
here  for  a  few  days." 

"I  think  I  had  better  not  ask  him,"  said  Guido,  rousing 
himself.  "Your  father  and  mother  might  think  him,  well, 
queer." 

"And  would  I  think  him  queer  also?"  Janet  demanded. 

"I  think  so." 

"Then  it's  on  my  account  you  won't  ask  him,"  said 
Janet.  "That's  not  very  flattering  for  *we.  Daddy  says 
you  are  one  of  the  rarely  endowed  creatures — Daddy's 
words  and  thought,  not  mine,  if  you  please — who  think 
a  spiritual  sin  worse  than  the  other  kind.  He  said  you'd 
sooner  forgive — always  quoting  Daddy,  you  comprehend — 
a  weakling's  gross  indulgence  in  his  appetites,  whatever 
that  may  mean,  than  a  woman  who  laughed  when  she 
hadn't  orter." 

"And  are  those  'Daddy's'  words  also,  'hadn't  orter  ?'  " 
Guido  inquired,  ironically. 

"Don't  attempt  to  sidetrack  me,  sir,"  said  Janet,  sternly. 
"That's  what  my  Daddy  said,  in  substance.  Now,  answer 
me!  Do  you  think  I'd  be  so  ill-natured  and  so  ill-bred 
and  so  unkind  and  so — well,  ill-natured  and  ill-bred  and 
unkind  as  to  laugh  at  any  friend  of  yours?  Or  at  anybody, 
for  that  matter?" 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  Guido  weakly,  telling  one  of 
the  white  lies  which  the  subject  of  this  discussion,  and  Otto 
as  well,  held  in  such  detestation.  "Of  course  not,"  he 
repeated,  more  vigorously. 

Janet  flounced  up  from  the  coucli. 

"I've  hit  the  nail  on  the  head,"  she  cried.  "You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Guido  Hauser !"  And  she  flung 


3i6  THE  HYPHEN 

from  the  room,  whether  in  real  or  simulated  anger,  Guido 
could  not  tell. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Janet  had  hit  the  nail  on  the  head. 
He  had  not  felt  certain  of  how  she  would  treat  Dobronov. 
Janet,  under  the  glass  of  daily  observation,  had  been  a 
daily  revelation.  She  changed  her  moods  with  disconcert 
ing  frequency.  She  perplexed  Guido.  He  had  never  met 
so  mercurial  and  volatile  a  creature.  He  felt  dimly  that 
the  term  changeable  must  not  be  applied  to  her,  for  her 
variability  was  due  not  to  capriciousness,  which  is  the  muta 
bility  of  the  frivolous  and  the  shallow,  who  bend  like  reeds 
to  every  gust  of  fashion  or  passion,  but  was  the  upshot 
of  a  singularly  rich  and  splendid  character  in  process  of 
evolution  and  growth,  a  character  in  which  divergent  but 
not  conflicting  elements  had  not  yet  been  harmonized  into 
a  well-poised  entirety. 

Guido,  after  deliberating  a  moment,  laid  aside  his  book 
and  went  in  search  of  Janet.  He  found  her  in  the  orchard, 
embroidering  under  a  wide-spreading  apple-tree. 

"Well,"  she  demanded,  "have  you  come  to  ask  my  for 
giveness  ?" 

"Why  should  I?"  he  inquired,  sitting  down  at  her  feet 
in  the  sweet-smelling  clover  which  spread  a  luxurious  pink 
and  white  carpet  under  the  gnarled  and  knotted  old  tree. 
"What  have  I  done?  I  have  not  injured  you." 

"In  thought — can  you  deny  it?"  Janet  inquired,  holding 
her  embroidery  at  arm's  length,  to  admire  the  effect. 

"If  you  chose  to  consider  it  an  affront  that  I  preferred 
to  keep  my  friend  at  a  distance  because  I  feared  he  would 
be  distasteful  to  you,  I  cannot  help  it,"  said  Guido,  feeling 
that,  after  all,  that  was  the  truth — or  one  angle  of  it. 

"Ah,"  said  Janet,  "you  are  clever.     Very." 

"Clever?"  Guido  echoed.  "Is  that  another  way  of  telling 
me  that  I  am  insincere?" 

Janet  smiled  ravishingly. 

"It  was  my  intention  to  offend  you  as  little  as  it  was 
yours  to  offend  me,"  she  said,  a  sweet  smile  on  her  lips. 
But  her  eyes  looked  hot  and  angry  and  pained. 

Guido  bit  his  lip.  Nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  this 
sort  of  charge  and  counter-charge.  He  admired  Janet's 
shrewdness,  but  he  was  by  no  means  persuaded  that  she 


YOUTH  317 

would  not  think  Dobronov  a  sort  of  animated  joke.    Finally 
he  felt  a  brute  at  thought  of  having  offended  her. 

"Janet!" 

"Guido?" 

"Janet,  I  humbly  beg  your  pardon  for  hurting  you.  I 
would  not  hurt  your  feelings  for  worlds." 

"Not  for  worlds,  but  for  the  truth." 

"I  ask  you  to  forgive  me." 

"I  forgive  you  because  you  ask  forgiveness." 

"That  is  generous  of  you.  If  you  still  wish  it,  I  will 
invite  Dobronov." 

"It  is,  of  course,  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me  whether 
you  do  or  not.  My  mother,  in  suggesting  the  invitation, 
merely  desired  to  let  you  know  that  your  friends  were  as 
welcome  at  "Waldheim"  as  yourself.  It  was  a  compliment 
to  you.  Supposing  we  drop  the  subject.  Did  you  ever 
see  clouds  so  white  or  a  sky  so  blue?  An  Italian  sky, 
Grossvater  Geddes  calls  it.  It's  a  perfect  day." 

Guido  turned  pale  with  the  turbulence  of  his  emotions. 
Why  did  his  pulses  leap  so,  his  temples  beat  so  furiously? 
Why  did  he  feel  so  pitifully  small  and  young  and  silly? 
Janet's  manner  was  magnificent.  The  boy  realized  from 
the  soft  gentleness  and  dignity  with  which  she  spoke  how 
deep  was  the  smart  which  he  had  inflicted. 

"Janet!" 

"Guido?" 

"Janet,  you  haven't  forgiven  me.  No,  I  don't  mean  that. 
You  say  you  have  and  your  word  is  your  bond.  But, 
please  forgive  me!"  he  floundered  about  hopelessly.  He 
was  generations  younger  than  she  at  the  moment  though 
their  ages  were  identical.  Never  had  he  seen  her  so 
superbly  womanly,  so  divinely  self-controlled,  so  flawlessly 
beautiful.  Perhaps,  since  he  was  in  the  bondage  of 
adolescence,  her  beauty,  even  more  than  her  spiritual  worth, 
tied  a  knot  in  his  throat  and  sent  his  mental  thermometer 
down  to  zero. 

And  suddenly,  overwhelmingly  he  felt  that  he  owed  her 
the  truth  and  not  mere  fragments  of  it. 

"Janet,  I'll  confess — I  was  afraid  you  might  poke  fun 
at  Dobronov.  It  was  horrid  of  me.  Forgive  me." 

Janet  did  not  reply  at  once,  and  he  thought  that  he  had 
made  her  angry  anew.  Then  she  looked  up  at  him  and 


3i8  THE  HYPHEN 

saw  that  although  her  mouth  was  still  grave  and  dignified, 
her  eyes  were  dancing  with  merriment  and  amusement. 
There  was  a  strange  light  in  her  eyes,  too,  a  light  which 
Guido  had  never  seen  in  any  human  eye  before,  for  as 
yet  he  knew  nothing  of  the  light  which  love  sets  to  burning 
and  to  flaming  in  a  woman's  eyes. 

"Guido,"  said  Janet,  "you  foolish  boy,  can  we  never 
enjoy  the  luxury  of  a  little  tiff  without  your  making  your 
self  sick  over  it?  I  wanted  to  punish  you  a  wee  bit  and  I've 
all  but  annihilated  you.  There  now,  it's  all  right." 

The  girl's  voice  did  not  match  her  bantering  words.  It 
was  tender,  not  merry. 

"I'm  not  a  wee  bit  hurt  now,  Guido,"  she  added,  giving 
him  another  glimpse  of  the  heaven  that  was  mirrored  in 
her  eyes. 

Guido  sat  very  still.  A  wonderful  something  had  hap 
pened  to  him,  an  ineffable,  unnamable,  unimagined  experi 
ence  had  befallen.  His  heart  felt  strained  and  queer  with 
sheer  joy. 

He  wrote  Dobronov  that  very  night,  who,  since  his 
Bieguny  views  did  not  preclude  visits  to  well-to-do  estab 
lishments,  accepted  the  invitation  for  the  following  week 
end. 

When  Friday  morning  arrived,  Janet  announced  that 
she  intended  taking  the  chauffeur's  place  in  going  to  the 
station.  Early  in  the  afternoon  she  came  out  to  her  father, 
who  was  sitting  on  the  porch,  with  a  childishly  woe-begone 
face.  / 

"Mother's  bought  five  crates  of  tomatoes  at  thirty-five 
cents  each,"  said  Janet,  "and  she  wants  me  to  stay  home 
and  help  with  the  preserving  instead  of  going  down  for 
Mr.  Dobronov." 

"Then  notify  Charlie  to  go  in  your  place.  The  weeding 
can  wait." 

"I  was  hoping  you  would  say  it  couldn't,"  said  Janet,  in 
a  very  small  voice.  "Mother  has  Maggie  to  help  her,  you 
know,  and  I  never  did  any  preserving  in  my  life." 

Professor  Geddes  regarded  his  daughter  with  humor 
ously  shrewd  eyes. 

"Are  you  by  any  chance  trying  to  convey  to  me  your 
desire  to  be  relieved  from  kitchen  duty?" 

"Yes,  Daddykins." 


YOUTH  319 

Professor  Geddes  removed  his  glasses  and  polished  them 
with  great  gusto. 

"Daughter,"  he  said,  "I  think  there  are  two  valid  reasons 
why  you  should  stay.  Five  crates  of  tomatoes  represent 
considerable  work — your  presence  in  the  kitchen  is  there 
fore  not  as  ornamental  as  you  may  think.  Besides,  your 
mother  wishes  you  to  remain.  Am  I  right?" 

"Yes,  Daddy,"  Janet  replied  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
and  vanished  to  the  kitchen. 

Guido,  who  had  pretended  to  hear  nothing  of  this  con 
versation,  thought : 

"Is  it  possible  this  little  girl  and  the  fine  lady  who  made 
me  so  miserable  the  other  day  are  one  and  the  same  human 
being?" 

When,  late  that  afternoon,  the  automobile  which  had 
been  sent  to  the  station  for  Dobronov  hove  in  sight,  Janet, 
spotlessly  attired  in  white,  the  five  crates  of  tomatoes 
having  meanwhile  found  their  way  into  Mason  jars,  was 
concerned  to  see  only  Charlie,  the  chauffeur,  and  Guido 
in  the  big  touring  car.  Some  sort  of  outfit — Janet  could 
not  tell  of  what  nature  the  gear  was — was  packed  in  the 
body  of  the  car. 

She  ran  down  to  meet  the  car,  as  it  drove  into  the  wide 
circle  of  their  private  road. 

"Didn't  he  come?"  she  demanded. 

Guido,  a  smile  on  his  face,  jumped  from  his  seat  and 
removed  the  gear  from  the  car. 

"He  came  all  right,"  he  replied,  working  as  he  talked, 
and  explained  that  Dobronov  had  insisted  on  walking  the 
three  miles  up  the  mountain  because  to  ride  in  a  high- 
power  car  was  against  his  principles. 

"It's  a  pity  we  didn't  think  to  borrow  an  antediluvian 
one-horse  shay  for  the  occasion,"  said  Professor  Geddes. 

"Let's  go  down  the  road  and  meet  him,"  Janet  sug 
gested.  Cecil  declined  to  go,  so  Guido  and  Janet  went 
off  alone. 

They  discovered  Dobronov  quarter  of  a  mile  down  the 
road.  He  had  stopped  at  a  brook  to  wash  the  dust  from 
his  face  and  hands,  and  was  drying  the  latter  in  a  large 
clean  handkerchief,  evidently  carried  for  the  purpose,  just 
as  Janet  and  Guido  came  upon  him. 

"I  intended  that  you  should  see  me  after  my  toilet  was 


320  THE  HYPHEN 

made,  not  during  it,"  Dobronov  said,  with  more  gallantry 
than  Guido  had  thought  him  capable  of. 

"I  wouldn't  have  missed  the  scene  for  worlds,"  Janet 
assured  him.  "It  was  like  a  sunset  scene  in  a  rural  play. 
I  hope  you  don't  mind  the  comparison,  Mr.  Dobronov." 

"Why  should  I?  Life  is  full  of  dramatic  and  pictorial 
values,"  Dobronov  replied,  calmly,  and  proceeded  to  de 
scribe  an  incident  of  Russian  peasant  life  which  he  had 
witnessed  years  ago  by  chance,  and  which  had  lingered 
in  his  memory  because  of  the  dramatic  possibilities  sug 
gested  by  it. 

Guido  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  Things  were  going  in 
finitely  much  better  than  he  had  dared  anticipate. 

At  supper  Dobronov  explained  that  he  had  brought  a 
magic  lantern  belonging  to  a  friend,  with  slides  showing 
Russian  scenes  which  he  thought  might  be  of  interest  to 
his  hostess  and  her  family. 

"I  have  thought  to  bring  everything  I  need,"  he  said, 
addressing  Mrs.  Geddes;  "sheet,  oil  for  the  lantern  and 
the  frame  for  the  sheet.  All  I  must  ask  of  you  is  the 
space  in  which  to  erect  my  outfit." 

Mrs.  Geddes  assured  him  that  he  was  welcome  to  as  much 
space  as  he  needed,  adding: 

"If  you  make  yourself  indispensable  to  us  by  entertain 
ing  us,  Mr.  Dobronov,  I  threaten  we  will  not  allow  you  to 
escape  us  on  Monday." 

"Ah,  Madame,  my  religious  beliefs  prohibit  my  accept 
ing  your  hospitality  for  longer  than  three  or  four  days." 

"Do  you  then  think  it  wrong  to  remain  in  one  place  for 
more  than  a  few  days?"  Janet  inquired. 

"Not  that — but "  Dobronov  glanced  uneasily  at  the 

well-appointed  table,  with  its  immaculate  napery,  its  fine 
porcelain,  its  beautiful  silver  and  its  abundance  of  whole 
some,  well-prepared  food.  "It  is  very  pleasant — very — to 
eat  amply  of  a  variety  of  good  food.  In  my  home  in 
Russia,  we,  of  course,  lived  well  also.  But  I  ran  away 
from  my  home  and  its  material  pleasures  to  become  ac 
quainted  with  my  soul.  Yet,  so  overlaid  was  my  spirit 
with  the  material  and  the  mundane  that,  although  I  have 
been  away  from  home  now  for  almost  twelve  years,  I 
have  not  yet  found  my  soul's  place  in  the  universe.  That 
will  come  in  time.  In  the  meantime,  I  must  do  nothing 


YOUTH  321 

to  hazard  what  little  progress  I  have  made  on  the  road 
of  spirituality." 

"But,  surely,"  Janet  exclaimed,  "you  must  eat  wherever 
you  are !"  She  was  horrified  as  only  the  young  who  have 
known  opulence  all  their  lives  can  be  horrified  at  the 
thought  of  insufficient  nourishment. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course !  But  I  do  not  eat  such  food  as 
you  do.  I  live  one  day  on  oatmeal,  a  second  day  on 
potatoes,  a  third  day  on  turnips,  a  fourth  on  cabbage,  a 
fifth  on  fried  liver.  All  cheap  foods,  you  see,  and  to  me 
not  over-palatable." 

The  table  stared,  and  Guido  became  vaguely  uneasy. 
Professor  Geddes  remarked  after  a  moment  of  tense 
silence : 

"Well,  if  that  is  the  only  reason  why  you  cannot  stay 
longer  than  three  days,  Mr.  Dobronov,  I  dare  say  my 
wife  can  so  arrange  things  that  you  have  rice  one  day, 
and  hominy  the  next,  and  baked  tomatoes  the  third.  Or, 
if  those  foods  are  too  luxurious,  there  are  a  lot  of  edible 
weeds  in  the  meadow  beyond,  as  I  discovered  from  a 
botany  the  other  day,  which  are  warranted  to  taste  bad 
and  cost  nothing." 

Janet  perceived  the  droll  drift  of  her  father's  reply  and 
glanced  apprehensively  at  Guido.  But  Guido  smiled  at 
her  reassuringly.  The  Professor  possessed  the  secret  of 
injecting  an  indefinable  sweetness  into  his  whimsicality 
which  enabled  him  to  "poke  fun"  at  others  without  fear 
of  giving  offense. 

Sergius  Ivanovich  was  entirely  deficient  in  the  sense  of 
humor.  He  accepted  the  Professor's  statement  at  face 
value. 

"In  that  case,"  he  said,  "I  shall,  of  course,  be  happy  to 
remain  longer." 

"Still,"  said  Janet,  quite  seriously,  "I  do  not  understand 
in  the  least  why  your  soul  should  be  affected  by  the  food 
you  eat." 

"Ah,"  said  Dobronov,  "you  do  not  know  what  poverty 
really  means  or  you  would  not  say  that.  In  the  first  place, 
abstention  from  pleasure — and  gustatory  enjoyment  is  a 
very  keen  pleasure — means  mortification  of  the  flesh. 
Which  is  good  for  all  of  us.  Then,  too,  I  refrain  from 
eating  rich,  agreeable  food  because  there  are  so  many  poor 


322  THE  HYPHEN 

people  in  Russia  who  have  not  enough  to  eat.  Formerly 
I  thought  of  those  people  incessantly.  And  the  misery 
which  I  knew  they  were  enduring  kept  me  from  thinking 
about  my  soul.  I  then  decided  to  become  poor  myself, 
and  now  I  live  as  the  poor  do  and  their  miseries  have 
ceased  to  trouble  me.  I  am  free  at  last  to  ponder  about 
the  Infinite." 

Again  silence  fell  upon  the  table. 

Mrs.  Geddes  thought:  "How  morbid  these  foreigners 
are." 

Janet  thought:  "I  believe  Guide's  Sergius  is  right.  I'm 
going  to  try  it  some  day." 

Grossvater  Geddes  thought:  "Religious  imbecility! 
These  Russians  are  either  voluptuaries  or  mystics." 

Dr.  Koenig  thought:  "With  Dobronov  as  a  friend, 
Guido  has  surely  had  enough  religious  nonsense  offered 
for  his  inspection  to  comply  with  the  most  rigorous  demands 
of  No-Bias.  Heavenly  Synthesis!  How  will  it  all  work 
out?" 

Cecil  thought :  "If  this  is  a  sample  of  the  human  mate 
rial  offered  to  America  for  digestion,  I'll  not  forego  my 
birthright  as  a  Britisher." 

Guido  thought:  "Now  they  are  thinking  old  Dob  and 
his  religious  scruples  a  joke.  And  I  don't  blame  them. 
I  wish  to  goodness  he'd  keep  his  conscience  to  himself." 

Professor  Geddes,  after  quite  a  long  pause,  remarked, 
judicially : 

"You  will  forgive  a  man  who  is  a  good  deal  older  than 
yourself,  I  hope,  for  venturing  a  criticism.  If  your  absten 
tion  from  material  pleasures  is  merely  the  purchase  price 
of  religious  exaltation,  aren't  you  laying  yourself  open  to 
the  charge  of  being  a  spiritual  sensualist?  You  know,  Mr. 
Dobronov,  I  have  always  thought  that  the  unkempt,  un 
shaven,  unwashed  man  who  sleeps  on  the  park  bench  and 
takes  no  thought  of  the  morrow  is  your  true  Hedonist. 
He  has  achieved  the  lowest  rung  of  the  ladder,  so  that 
fear  of  a  further  declension  cannot  trouble  him.  And, 
having  nothing  in  the  world  to  worry  about,  he  can  enjoy 
the  Paradise  of  his  own  thoughts  to  the  uttermost.  It's 
in  our  mind,  you  know,  that  our  true  existence  takes 
place." 

"Heavens,"    Dobronov    cried,    "what    things    people    do 


YOUTH  323 

say."  He  seemed  frightfully  startled.  "Why,  sir,  do  you 
propound  such  a  terrific  problem  to  me?  Oh,  I  shall  be 
crushed  by  my  religious  doubts.  Am  I  indeed  nothing  but 
a  spiritual  voluptuary?  It  may  be.  It  may  be." 

Mrs.  Geddes  threw  a  look  of  mingled  alarm  and  ad 
monition  at  her  husband. 

"Don't  mind  the  Professor,  Mr.  Dobronov,"  she  said, 
kindly.  "He  doesn't  mean  half  he  says.  He  frequently 
talks  nonsense." 

"My  dear!"  mildly  expostulated  the  Professor. 

"Well,  Daddy,  don't  you?"  Janet  inquired,  composedly. 
"You  know  you  wouldn't  have  said  a  thing  like  that  in 
class.  Now,  would  you?  That's  the  acid  test,"  she  ex 
plained  to  Dobronov. 

"In  class,"  said  the  Professor  composedly,  "I  teach  his 
tory,  not  philosophy.  Mr.  Dobronov,  you  have  it  on  the 
best  authority — my  wife  and  my  daughter — that  my  state 
ments  are  untrustworthy.  Pray  dismiss  what  I  said  from 
your  mind." 

Guido  wondered  a  little  at  Dobronov's  forethought  in 
bringing  the  magic  lantern.  It  did  not  seem  like  Sergius 
Ivanovich  to  think  of  anything  so  frivolous  as  mere  amuse 
ment.  The  subjects  on  the  slides,  however,  explained 
Dobronov's  lapse  into  levity.  They  represented  scenes  from 
Russian  peasant  life,  showing  the  unbelievable  poverty  in 
which  an  enormous  number  of  Russians  live.  There  were 
slides  showing  large  holes  dug  into  the  earth  in  which  the 
peasants  of  some  villages  live  all  the  year  round.  There 
were  scenes  showing  the  interior  of  prisons,  the  condition 
of  prisoners,  chastisement  with  the  knout.  All  of  the  slides 
perpetuated  scenes  difficult  and  expensive  to  procure. 
Guido  guessed  the  truth  before  Dobronov  told  it  him.  A 
friend  of  Dobronov's,  Vasalov,  had  brought  these  scenes 
to  New  York  with  him  from  Russia.  He  intended  to  tour 
the  country  during  fall  and  winter,  and  to  use  these  slides 
for  propaganda  purposes  among  the  Russians  in  America. 
The  name  Vasalov  conveyed  little  to  Guido.  Dobronov 
had  spoken  of  Vasalov  occasionally.  Frau  Ursula  never. 
In  no  way  did  he  connect  Vasalov  with  himself.  He  had 
totally  forgotten  his  meeting  with  Vasalov  when  a  child. 

Among  the  slides  were  quite  a  number  showing 
"politicals"  en  route  for  Siberia.  One  projection  showed 


324  THE  HYPHEN 

a  forbidding-looking  building,  a  castle  or  a  fortress,  which 
Dobronov  attempted  to  withdraw  without  his  usual  pains 
taking  eludication.  Professor  Geddes  challenged  his  haste. 

"It  is  the  fortress  at  Schlusselburg,  which  is  now  used 
as  a  prison,"  Dobronov  replied  in  answer  to  the  Professor's 
inquiry. 

"Of  any  special   significance?"   inquired  the  Professor. 

"The  Princess  Vasalov  has  been  imprisoned  here,  in  this 
cell,"  he  indicated  the  spot  with  his  pointer,  "for  fifteen 
years." 

"And  who  is  the  lady?"  inquired  the  insatiable  Professor, 
causing  Dobronov  to  curse  the  malignity  of  fate  that, 
through  some  chance,  had  spirited  this  slide  back  into  his 
case,  for  he  had  been  under  the  impression  that  he  had 
removed  it. 

"She  is  a  cousin  of  Prince  Vasalov,  an  intimate  friend 
of  mine,  and  like  him,  a  famous  revolutionist,  a  woman  of 
high  principle,  of  transcendent  ability  and  energy,  and  quite 
famous  among  revolutionists." 

"Why  famous?"  The  Professor's  thirst  for  knowledge 
threw  Dobronov  almost  into  despair. 

"Because  she  is — or  was — a  very  successful  bomb- 
thrower.  She  has  to  her  credit  the  assassination  of  five 
high  functionaries." 

"And  do  you  approve  of  that?"  inquired  Professor 
Geddes.  "I  thought  you  were  a  disciple  of  Non-Re- 
sistance." 

"I  am.  I  detest  violent  measures.  But  you  see,  she  is 
as  sincere  in  her  beliefs  as  I  am  in  mine,"  said  Dobronov, 
simply. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  is  carrying  tolerance  too  far,"  said 
Guide,  his  young  face  was  stern  and  set.  "Murder  is 
murder.  How  can  you  speak  of  high  principles  in  this 
connection,  Sergius  Ivanovich?  The  man  or  woman  who 
commits  murder  is  simply  a " 

"You  must  not  call  Varvara  Alexandrovna  that " 

Dobronov,  very  pale,  spoke  with  unwonted  haste. 

"Varvara  Alexandrovna,"  said  Guido,  more  mildly.  The 
beauty  of  sound  had  caught  his  ear  and  for  the  moment 
he  gave  no  thought  to  the  iniquity  of  the  woman  owning 
so  lovely  and  so  regal  a  name.  "What  a  beautiful  name," 
he  said. 


YOUTH  325 

"Yes,"  Dobronov  assented,  "and  you  must  believe  me 
when  I  tell  you  that  her  nature  is  as  splendid  as  her  name. 
She  sincerely  believes  that  she  and  the  party  she  represents 
have  chosen  the  only  method  for  freeing  the  Russian 
people  from  the  insufferable  yoke  which  the  bureaucrats 
have  fastened  upon  them.  And  think,  Guido  Guidovich, 
what,  she  has  suffered  all  these  years — in  solitary  confine 
ment — in  this  cell!" 

Guido  frowned.  He  said  no  more.  Was  he  touched 
by  Dobronov's  plea  and  merely  ashamed  to  admit  it?  Or 
did  he  still  condemn  Varvara  Alexandrovna  ? 

Later,  when  good-night  was  being  said,  Janet  said  to 
Guido : 

"I  really  do  not  know  why  you  were  so  afraid  to  in 
troduce  your  friend  to  us.  He  is  the  most  entertaining 
man  I  have  ever  met." 

"Entertaining  or  amusing?" 

"I  said  entertaining.  I  came  near  saying  'fascinating.' 
If  I  didn't,  it's  because  you  might  have  resented  it." 

Guido,  usually  not  obtuse,  hardly  dared  to  pluck  the 
obvious  meaning  from  Janet's  words.  Her  color  confirmed 
that  meaning.  She  said,  the  mood  of  the  hoyden  as  usually 
following  a  spontaneous  outbreak  of  innocent  coquetry: 

"Now  don't  imagine  that  I  meant  that  as  a  compliment 
to  you,  because  I  didn't.  It  was  nothing  but — well — my 
usual  flipness." 

"Flipness!"  The  home-coined  word  amused  Guido  and 
he  laughed. 

Janet,  her  disarranged  self-control  restored  by  Guido's 
hilarity,  said: 

"I  supposed  him  to  be  old  and  ugly  and  generally 
impossible.  And  I  find  him  excellent  company,  young  and 
nice-looking — almost  as  pretty  in  his  way  as  Grossvater 
Geddes  is  in  his." 

"Pretty!    What  a  word  to  apply  to  a  man." 

"Your  friend  or  Grossvater  Geddes  ?  Why  should  Gross- 
vate  Geddes  object?  At  his  age  men  are  usually  plain 
horrors." 

"Still " 

"I'm  sorry  you  object  to  the  word,"  said  Janet  with  the 
coy  demureness  which  promised  mischief.  "You  know, 
in  your  way,  you  are  pretty,  too." 


326  THE  HYPHEN 

"Well,  if  Grossvater  Geddes'  age  removes  the  sting  from 
the  word,  so  must  my  youth.  I  trust  I  may  outgrow  the 
outrage  in  time." 

"And  grow  into  it  again  at  Grossvater  Geddes'  age," 
said  Janet.  Looking  up,  she  laughed  deliciously. 

Guido  did  not  reply  but  stood  regarding  her  with 
piercingly  eloquent  eyes.  Her  own  grew  soft  and  humid 
under  his  gaze.  They  stood  thus  for  a  minute,  their 
glances  interlocked,  intertwined,  embracing.  The  intimacy, 
at  this  moment,  which  existed  between  them  was  as  strong 
but  far  more  delicate  than  if  they  had  indulged  in  the 
osculatory  exercises  in  which  the  highest  felicity  of  young 
people  is  supposed  to  consist.  The  diffidence,  the  shyness, 
the  modesty  of  youth  bound  them  about  and  held  them  cap 
tive  to  the  disembodied  blandishment.  With  a  mutual  sigh 
— one  of  those  unconscious  sighs  which  seem  to  cleave  the 
heart — their  eyes  released  each  other.  They  became  aware 
again  of  finite  things — time :  ten-thirty ;  place :  the  lower 
hall;  environment:  half  a  dozen  persons  in  the  room 
beyond. 

"Good-night,"   said  Janet,   softly. 

"Good-night,  Janet,"  the  boy  responded. 

She  said  "Good-night"  once  more,  without  speaking  his 
name.  It  sounded  to  him  like  a  consecration  or  a  benedic 
tion.  Then  she  went  upstairs  to  her  room. 

Guido  could  not  sleep.  Brain  and  blood  were  both 
hammering  furiously,  he  knew  not  why.  He  sought  the 
solitude  of  the  library  there  to  embark  upon  his  first 
venture  into  the  wilds  of  literature. 

The  library  was  a  large,  square  room,  situated  in  an 
extension  which  had  been  built  to  accommodate  it.  It  was 
quite  pretentiously  furnished,  being,  as  Mrs.  Geddes  said, 
the  handsomest  room  in  the  house,  with  the  exception  of 
Grossvater  Geddes'  museum-sleeping-sitting-room.  Guido 
had  spent  far  less  time  here  than  he  anticipated.  On  the 
morning  after  his  arrival  he  had  asked  Professor  Geddes 
to  instruct  him  in  his  tasks. 

"Tasks?"  The  professor  had  inquired  with  a  mildly 
innocent  air  which  he  affected  at  times.  "Did  you  say 
'tasks'?  My  dear  lad,  rest  up  for  a  week,  get  acclimated, 
before  you  speak  to  me  of  tasks  again." 

A  week  later  Guido  had  accordingly  repeated  his  request. 


YOUTH  327 

"My  dear  lad,  I'm  not  in  the  mood  for  work  to-day. 
Are  you?  If  you  are,  you'll  have  to  go  into  yonder  ad 
jacent  field  and  dig  up  tree-stumps.  In  the  country  I 
never  work  unless  I  feel  like  it.  We'll  start  tasks  on  a 
rainy  day." 

On  the  first  rainy  day,  which  happened  along  in  the 
second  week,  Guido  again  presented  himself  at  the  library 
door. 

"Come  in,  come  in,"  Professor  Geddes  cried,  as  if  greet 
ing  a  visitor.  "What,  you  came  here  to  work?  Work  at 
what?  Oh,  for  me?  My  dear  lad,  what  a  glutton  for 
work  you  are.  This  is  the  first  rainy  day  we've  had,  and 
that's  always  an  event.  Do  you  play  chess  ?  Good !  Let's 
have  a  game." 

They  played  chess  until  dinner.  Then  it  cleared  and 
the  entire  family  went  for  a  drive.  After  supper  the  Pro 
fessor  and  Guido  again  played  chess  until  bedtime. 

Finally,  by  dint  of  much  diplomacy  and  tact,  Guido  had 
wormed  out  of  the  Professor  the  system  in  which  he 
wanted  his  books  catalogued.  After  that  Guido  put  in 
a  couple  of  hours  every  day,  clandestinely  for  the  greater 
part,  for  it  was  quite  impossible  to  work  when  the  Pro 
fessor  was  in  the  library.  He  wanted  to  talk,  or  to  play 
chess,  or  to  ask  questions;  sometimes,  too,  he  wanted  the 
library  to  himself.  Morning  after  morning  he  bundled 
Guido  off  and  morning  after  morning,  while  Janet  was 
busy  about  the  house  helping  her  mother,  Guido  and  Cecil 
went  strolling  through  the  woods  or  down  the  broad  high 
way.  They  did  not  always  talk  on  these  excursions. 
There  was  time  for  cogitation.  It  was  to  further  elaborate 
one  of  these  cogitations  that  Guido  sought  the  library  on 
the  night  of  Dobronov's  arrival. 

It  was  his  first  serious  effort  at  a  short  story.  At  home 
he  had  from  time  to  time  covered  acres  of  paper,  repre 
senting  literary  exercises  rather  than  a  concerted  effort. 
To-night  a  story,  complete,  rounded,  balanced,  presented 
itself  to  his  mind's  eye,  and  he  wrote  easily,  quickly,  al 
most  feverishly,  whipped  on  by  a  subconscious  fear  that 
his  pen  might  not  keep  pace  with  his  thoughts,  that  his 
thoughts,  impatient  of  his  pen's  slow  gait,  might  race  ahead 
and  be  lost  beyond  hope  of  recapture. 

He  was  in  the  flush  and   furore  which  creative  work 


328  THE  HYPHEN 

imparts.  He  wrote  steadily  for  three  hours,  unconscious 
of  time,  unconscious  of  the  chill  in  the  room,  unconscious 
of  himself.  He  had  almost  finished  his  first  story  when 
an  apparition  at  the  door  challenged  his  attention.  Pro 
fessor  Geddes,  clad  in  a  fanciful  bathrobe  of  delft  blue 
and  white,  regarded  the  young  man  sleepily  with  blinking 
eyes. 

"If  you've  been  sitting  over  those  infernal  cards  until 
this  hour,"  said  Professor  Geddes  in  a  voice  husky  with 
sleep,  "I've  a  great  mind,  sir,  to  pack  you  off  for  home 
to-morrow." 

Guido  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow  and  sighed  deeply. 
He  could  not  at  once  adjust  himself  to  the  reality  of 
things. 

"I've  been  writing,"  he  stammered,  "a  short  story." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  then,"  said  the  Professor,  com 
pletely  mollified.  He  disappeared  through  the  door  to  the 
hall. 

Guido,  to  his  surprise,  found  himself  unable  to  continue. 
He  was  like  a  patient  long  ill  with  a  fever  after  the  fever 
is  gone.  He  felt  weak,  cold,  with  a  curious  sensation  of 
unyielding  rigidity  at  the  temples  and  the  base  of  the 
brain.  He  jotted  down  a  sequence  of  memoranda  to  guide 
him  in  the  conclusion  of  his  tale  on  the  morrow.  It  was 
all  he  could  do.  A  feebleness,  as  of  old  age,  he  thought, 
invaded  him  and  seemed  to  eat  into  his  very  marrow. 
He  was  about  to  rise  when  the  door  opened  again;  the 
Professor  entered  carrying  a  tray.  He  closed  the  door 
softly  behind  him,  and  said : 

"I've  made  some  cocoa  and  sandwiches.  Dobronov's 
word-pictures  of  starvation  kept  me  awake  and — it's  hate 
ful,  I  know — have  given  me  an  unusual  appetite.  Come, 
let's  eat  and  drink  and  talk.  I'm  glad  you  have  a  taste 
for  writing." 

"I  have  the  taste  all  right,  but  I'm  in  doubt  as  to  the 
talent,"  said  Guido,  modestly.  "You  are  more  than  kind 
to  me,  sir/'  he  added,  and  he  received  the  cup  of  cocoa 
which  the  Professor  handed  him. 

"I  think,"  said  the  Professor,  settling  himself  com 
fortably  in  his  own  particular  chair,  as  for  a  long  talk, 
"every  thinking  person  has  some  talent  for  writing.  The 
great  point,  in  my  estimation,  is  to  have  the  taste  for 


YOUTH  329 

writing.  You  are  very  young  to  try  your  hand  at  the 
art  which  is  the  most  complex  of  all  and  the  most  difficult 
as  well,  because  its  medium  is  not  canvas,  nor  marble, 
nor  bronze,  nor  harmonics,  but  the  entire  gamut  of  life 
and  humanity." 

"You  frighten  me,  sir,"  said  Guido. 

"I  hope  not.  It  is  true,  I  wish  to  discourage  you  a 
little,"  the  Professor  continued,  smoothly,  "so  that  you 
may  not  be  too  bitterly  disappointed  if  your  first  story  is 
rejected.  You  are  too  young  to  know  life,  too  young  to 
have  formed  a  theory  of  life." 

"I  think  I  know  life  fairly  well,"  Guido  replied,  with 
the  insouciant  assurance  of  extreme  youth.  "But,  of 
course,  as  yet  I  have  no  style." 

"Never  you  mind  your  style,"  said  the  Professor,  with 
unwonted  energy.  "Don't  try  to  achieve  a  style.  If  you 
do,  you'll  achieve  mannerisms  instead.  Herbert  Spencer's 
comments  on  style  are  the  most  telling  and  the  soundest 
I  remember.  He  says  that  he  never  gave  thought  to  the 
matter  of  style,  but  concentrated  all  his  efforts  upon  pro 
ducing  as  clear  and  emphatic  a  presentation  of  his  thoughts 
as  possible." 

"You  spoke  of  a  theory  of  life,"  said  Guido.  "Did  you 
mean,  sir,  adherence  to  the  idealistic  or  the  realistic  con 
ception  of  life?" 

"And  what  may  you  know  about  idealism  and  realism?" 
Professor  Geddes  demanded. 

Guido  hesitated  a  moment  before  replying. 

"You  know,  sir,"  he  said,  "if  it's  not  presumptuous  of 
me  to  judge,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  writers  who  are 
realists  have  set  out  with  the  avowed  intention  of  un 
earthing  everything  unlovely  in  human  nature.  They  see 
the  springs  of  action  solely  in  greed,  passion,  selfishness, 
sordidness.  When  they  paint  a  fine  character,  like  Pere 
Goriot,  they  make  him  out  to  be  something  of  a  fool." 

"And  the  idealists?" 

"They  see  motives  exclusively  as  we  would  like  to  see 
them  in  others  and  in  ourselves,  and  their  characters 
haven't  a  selfish  thought  between  them.  Excepting  the 
villains,  and  they  are  deep-dyed,  indeed.  But  human  nature 
is  a  blend,  is  it  not?" 

"It  undoubtedly  is,"  said  the  Professor.     "Do  I  under- 


330  THE  HYPHEN 

stand  that  you  intend  to  steer  a  middle  course  between 
idealism  and  realism?  To  combine  them,  as  it  were?  If 
you  succeed,  you  would  indeed  be  doing  something  worth 
while.  I  don't  believe  it's  been  done  excepting  by  the 
greatest  of  the  great — Homer,  Shakespeare,  Meredith." 

"I  think  others  have  done  it  as  well,"  said  Guido,  speak 
ing  with  sudden  eagerness.  "I  mean  the  Russians,  sir. 
The  Russian  novelists.  They  are  giants.  At  first  glance 
their  characters  all  seem  a  little  mad,  but  I  think  that  is 
due  to  the  Russian  disinclination  to  comment  much  upon 
their  characters,  as  the  better  English  writers  do.  I've 
read  a  few  of  Meredith's  novels,  sir,  although  I  do  not 
pretend  to  entirely  understand  them,  and  Meredith  is  cer 
tainly  an  essayist  as  well  as  a  novelist.  And  so  are  other 
English  novelists — George  Eliot  and  Bulwer  Lytton,  and, 
oh,  all  of  them.  The  running  commentaries  which  illumi 
nate  their  characters  constitute  essays  in  minature. 
Something  like  this.  Something  like  the  way  the  Japanese 
call  any  one  line  in  which  a  beautiful  thought  is  couched 
a  poem.  I  don't  know  whether  I  make  myself  clear." 

"Quite  clear,"  said  Professor  Geddes.  "Pray,  con 
tinue." 

"The  Russians  rarely  do  that.  You've  got  to  find  out 
about  their  characters  for  yourself.  And — at  first,  as  I 
said  before — they  seem  a  little  mad.  The  truth  is  they 
are  all  intensely  human.  It's  only  because  their  inward 
ness  is  so  clearly  externalized  that  they  seem  mad.  And 
there  is  one  quality  in  the  Russian  novelists  which  I  have 
found  nowheres  else — though  I  confess  I  get  far  more 
enjoyment  out  of  the  English  writers." 

"And  what  is  that  one  quality?"  Professor  Geddes  in 
quired,  curiously. 

"I  don't  think  I  can  explain  it." 

"Try." 

"Well,  they  have  such  faith  in  humanity,  such  a  love 
for  humanity.  They  make  you  feel  that  a  man  who  does 
a  bad  thing  is  not  necessarily  bad.  He  may  be  weak,  or 
carried  away  by  anger,  or  passion,  or  driven  into  a  corner 
by  circumstances.  But  you  feel  there  is  something  good 
somewheres  in  his  heart.  All  he  needs  is  another  chance 
to  bring  it  out.  It's  the  same  kindliness  in  withholding 
judgment  that  Dobronov  showed  to-night  when  he  would 


YOUTH  331 

not  condemn  the  woman  from  whose  notions  of  right  and 
wrong  his  own  differ  so  fundamentally."  Guido  paused 
and  then  softly  pronounced  "the  woman's"  name,  "Var- 
vara  Alexandrovna." 

"Go  on,"  said  Professor  Geddes,  feeling  as  he  were 
driving  a  thoroughbred  horse  somewhat  ruthlessly. 

"And  even  the  characters  who  are  ridiculous  or  thor 
oughly  depraved — well,  there's  a  breath  of  idealism  to 
soften  even  them.  You  feel  if  the  circumstances  of  their 
lives  had  been  different,  they  would  have  turned  out  dif 
ferently,  because  they  are  human  beings,  flesh  and  blood 
human  beings,  and  therefore  they  cannot  be  utterly  bad. 
I  think,  sir,  that's  all." 

"Well,"  said  Professor  Geddes,  "I  can  tell  you  this 
much,  my  boy.  Your  idealism  will  take  care  of  itself. 
You  will  have  to  meet  evil  at  first  hand,  face  to  face,  in 
order  that  you  may  believe  it.  That  is  just  as  well.  How 
is  it "  a  new  thought  had  apparently  struck  the  Pro 
fessor,  "that,  since  you  applaud  the  leniency  of  the  Russian 
writers,  and  Dobronov's,  too,  you  do  not  practice  it?  You 
have  Dobronov's  word  for  it  that  the  lady,  Varvara 
Alexandrovna,  did  what  we  consider  wrong  actuated  solely 
by  the  highest  possible  motives." 

Guido  smiled  subtly. 

"In  the  first  place,"  he  said,  "I'm  not  a  Russian.  So 
I  cannot  be  expected  to  take  the  Russian  view  of  things, 
even  if  I  think  it  very  fine." 

"You  mean  that  you  take  the  American  view?" 

"I  hope  so,"  Guido  replied  a  little  unsteadily.  He  was 
not  quite  certain  to  what  he  was  committing  himself. 

"And  what  may  the  American  view  be?"  The  question 
which  Guido  had  feared  stared  him  in  the  face.  He  pos 
sessed  too  much  self-reliance,  however,  to  turn  tail  and  fly. 

"It,  first  of  all,  stands  for  self-restraint  and  poise  and 
tolerance  and  good-nature.  Also  the  safe-guarding  of  the 
rights  of  the  individual."  He  was  now  safely  launched 
and  found  no  difficulty  in  embroidering  this  theme.  "That 
means,  of  course,  that  the  individual  must  respect  the 
rights  of  other  individuals.  And  we  practice  a  good  deal 
of  idealism  in  many  ways — but  Americans  are  not  fond 
of  the  word.  Perhaps  it  is  because  the  idealistic  trend 
in  America — I  think  I  ought  to  call  it  the  American  habit 


332  THE  HYPHEN 

of  right  living  and  kind  thinking — makes  it  comparatively 
easy  for  all  to  lead  the  right  sort  of  life,  that  good  motives 
run  amuck  do  not  commend  themselves  to  Americans  as 
they  do  to  Russians." 

"I  see,"  said  the  Professor,  "that  you  have  thought  to 
some  purpose.  And  now,  do  you  know  what  time  it  is? 
It  is  half-past  two.  You  had  better  go  to  bed." 

"I  want  to  make  a  few  more  notes,"  Guido  begged. 

"Oh,  very  well.  I'll  see  you're  not  called  in  the  morn 
ing." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

Alone  once  more,  Guido  returned  to  his  manuscript. 
But  he  had  now  completely  lost  the  thread  of  his  story. 
He  was  wretchedly  fagged  and  tired.  The  broad,  leather- 
covered  couch  beckoned  invitingly. 

"For  two  minutes  only,"  he  thought,  pressing  chill 
fingers  to  a  fever-hot  brow.  He  flung  himself  upon  the 
couch,  drawing  the  cover  up  over  his  feet. 

"For  two  minutes  only,"  he  repeated,  and  fell  sound 
asleep. 

When  the  Professor  entered  the  library  the  next  morn 
ing  he  found  that  the  lamp  had  gone  out  in  a  smother  of 
smoke.  But  Guido  was  still  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just. 

The  Professor  tiptoed  to  the  table.  The  pages  of 
Guide's  story  lay  spread  broadcast  over  the  desk  and 
blotter.  Carefully  gathering  them  together,  the  Professor 
carried  them  to  the  window. 

He  laid  down  the  manuscript  a  half -hour  later  with  a 
startled  look  in  his  eyes.  He  had  expected  to  find  the 
usual  strained  effervescence  of  a  first  effort.  Instead  he 
had  found  a  little  gem,  pitched  in  the  lyric  key,  and  pulsing 
throughout  with  a  virility  of  thought  and  tenderness  of 
sentiment  which  would  have  done  credit  to  a  veteran 
litterateur. 

Oddly  enough   his   thoughts  assumed  a  personal  tinge. 

"I  hope,"  he  thought,  "I  hope  this  boy  will  love  Janet. 
Yes,  I  hope  it.  He  is  worthy  of  her." 

Guido  stirred.  The  Professor  turned  toward  the  couch 
and  saw  fluttering  eyelids,  stretching  arms  and  hands 
fumbling  blindly  in  midair. 

"What  time  is  it?"  Guido  demanded,  sitting  bolt  up 
right.  "I  believe  I've  slept  here  all  night." 


YOUTH  333 

"I'm  sure  you  have,"  said  the  Professor.  "It's  long 
past  ten  o'clock." 

"I  must  change  my  clothes  and  have  a  bath,"  said  Guido, 
stifling  a  yawn.  "Heavens,  how  tired  I  am!  Oh,  sir, 
have  you  read  my  story?" 

"Yes,  I've  read  it." 

"And  you  think  it  rot?    You  do.    I  see  it  in  your  face." 

"My  dear  boy,  you  see  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  do  not 
think  it  rot.  It  rather  took  my  breath  away.  It's  really 
superlatively  good.  I  withdraw  my  words  of  last  night. 
By  all  means,  write,  and  begin  at  once,  and  expect  to  do 
well.  You  have  genius,  my  young  friend." 

Guido  grew  red  and  white  in  quick  succession. 

"Oh,  Professor  Geddes,"  he  cried,  "oh,  sir,  you  are 
partial  to  me."  And  he  staggered  off  to  his  bath. 

The  Professor's  praise  had  a  curious  effect  on  Guido. 
He  had  a  fair  modicum  of  both  the  overweening  conceit 
and  the  shattering  diffidence  of  youth  and  the  two  passions 
waged  continual  conflict  in  his  heart.  To  silence  conceit, 
which  was  inclined  to  become  obstreperous  after  the  glow 
ing  tribute  which  Professor  Geddes  had  paid  him,  Guido 
requisitioned  diffidence,  a  trick  by  which  he  hoped  to 
maintain  his  spiritual  balance  of  power.  But  he  played 
up  his  diffidence  too  strongly  and  became  its  prey.  His 
ambition  experienced  a  horrid  slump.  Mere  chance,  no 
doubt,  had  made  him  acquit  himself  "superlatively"  well 
the  previous  evening.  Since  he  had  done  well  once,  he 
would — odd  logic — never  put  pen  to  paper  again  for  fear 
of  making  a  consummate  ass  of  himself  the  next  time.  It 
was  doubtful  even  whether  he  would  be  able  to  complete 
the  miserable  little  story  which  he  had  begun  the  previous 
evening. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  newspaper  cart  from  Three  Corners  passed  "Wald- 
"heim"  at  eleven  o'clock  on  Sunday  mornings.  When 
Guido  descended  to  the  porch  a  little  after  eleven,  re 
freshed  and  invigorated  by  his  bath,  he  found  Dr.  Koenig 
and  Grossvater  Geddes  reading  different  sections  of  a 
German  paper;  Cecil  was  immersed  in  "The  Times";  Pro 
fessor  Geddes  was  browsing  over  the  book  reviews  of  the 
same  journal.  Janet  and  Dobronov  sat  on  the  steps  of 
the  porch,  talking. 

Janet,  when  she  saw  Guido,  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"Play  tennis?"  she  asked. 

"No  thanks,  not  on  an  empty  stomach." 

"Wouldn't  Maggie  give  you  something  to  eat?" 

"Oh,  yes.  But  I  didn't  wish  to  spoil  my  appetite  for 
your  mother's  Sunday  dinner.  I'm  not  like  Dobronov." 

Dobronov  smiled  good-naturedly. 

"Father  says  you  were  up  all  night  writing.  What  did 
you  do  that  for?"  Janet  continued. 

"I  did  it  for  the  reason  most  people  do  most  things. 
Because  I  could  not  help  myself." 

"I  do  not  think  that  a  very  good  reason,"  said  Janet. 
"I  call  it  a  lazy  reason." 

"Why  'lazy?"1 

"Because  it  required  no  thinking  to  produce." 

"But  if  it  is  the  real  reason?" 

"Then  it's  a  weak  reason  instead  of  a  lazy  one." 

"Well,  I'll  agree  to  let  it  go  at  that.  It's  the  true  reason. 
Therefore  a  weak  reason.  Weak  reasons  befit  weak 
persons.  And  I'm  very  weak  just  now — from  hunger." 

From  which  it  will  be  seen  that  Guido  had  learned  to 
accommodate  himself  to  Janet's  half-mischievous,  half- 
whimsical  manner  of  give  and  take  conversation.  Dobronov, 
entirely  destitute  of  humor  as  he  was,  looked  amazed  at 
this  sort  of  rough  and  tumble  pleasantry. 

334 


YOUTH  335 

Mrs.  Geddes  appeared  at  the  threshold  just  then,  and 
Janet  exclaimed: 

"Well,  Guido,  here's  mother  come  to  tell  us  dinner  is 
ready  and  to  save  your  life.  Mother,  is  dinner  ready?" 

"It  is.  And  Guido  shall  have  the  first  helping  of  every 
thing  because  he  had  no  breakfast.  Come,  my  lad." 

Guido  sprang  to  Mrs.  Geddes'  side  with  exaggerated 
alacrity,  made  her  a  magnificent  bow  and  offered  her  his 
arm.  Falling  in  with  the  boy's  humor,  she  accepted  his 
arm,  after  dropping  him  an  old-fashioned  curtsey.  They 
walked  off  together  laughing  and  talking.  The  rest  fol 
lowed  more  slowly. 

Janet's  eyes  followed  Guide's  adoringly.  This  young 
lady  had  many  curious  little  ways  with  her.  She  had  been 
candor  itself  in  avowing  her  infatuation  for  Guido  to  her 
father.  Later,  seized  with  excoriating  qualms  of  maiden 
modesty,  she  had  recanted.  Now,  becoming  aware  sud 
denly  that  the  plain  truth  of  the  situation — as  far  as  she 
was  concerned — was  writ  upon  every  lineament  of  her 
adorable  little  face,  she  essayed  to  outface  things  in  her 
usual  gallant-curtle-ax-upon-my-thigh  manner.  So,  when 
they  reached  the  dining-room,  she  cried,  gayly,  mockingly: 

"Guido,  did  you  know  that  the  plumes  of  your  hat 
swept  the  ground  when  you  bowed  to  mother?" 

Guido  laughed.  Cecil  appeared  bored.  Dobronov  looked 
bewildered  and  the  Professor  was  frankly  amused. 

"You  must  not  take  Miss  Geddes'  words  literally,  Do 
bronov,"  said  Guido,  and  added,  thereby  augmenting 
Dobronov's  confusion: 

"She  did  not  mean  a  real  hat  or  real  plumes,  but  re 
ferred  to  the  shadow  plumes  of  the  dream  hat  about  which 
I  was  writing  last  night." 

Janet  was  slightly  disconcerted.  She  could  not  always 
put  Guido  at  a  disadvantage.  But  I  think  she  did  not 
very  much  care,  for  our  young  lady  was  so  many  fathoms 
deep  in  love  that  she  gloried  in  each  and  every  victory  of 
our  hero,  even  when  it  was  won  at  her  own  expense. 

"Guido,"  she  asked,  presently,  a  little  less  fortissimo, 
"did  you  really  write  that  sort  of  a  story?" 

"What  sort  of  a  story?"  Guido  asked,  with  a  very  fair 
imitation  of  the  Professor's  manner  when  under  fire  of 
Janet's  inquisitorial  guns. 


336  THE  HYPHEN 

"About  plumed  hats,  and  lace  ruffles  and  all  the  frills 
and  fancies  men  used  to  wear  in  King  Charles'  day?" 

"No,"  said  Guido,  quite  seriously,  "I  did  not  sit  up 
half  the  night  to  write  a  tract  on  the  millinery  which  the 
Cavaliers  of  King  Charles'  court  used  to  parade.  That's 
more  in  Eddie  Erdman's  line." 

"I  must  tell  you,  sir,"  Janet  blazed  out,  "that  it  is  very 
horrid  of  you  to  answer  me  like  that.  You  are  laughing 
at  me." 

"Am  I  though?"  Guido  retorted.  "Truly  now,  I  thought 
I  was  merely  keeping  you  from  laughing  at  me." 

"You've  met  your  match,  Janet,"  Cecil  sang  out,  and 
Janet  gave  Cecil  a  look  of  superb  disdain.  Then  she  said : 

"Look  here,  Guido,  you  really  might  be  decent  and  tell 
what  you  were  writing  about." 

"Men  and  women,  chiefly." 

"That's  obvious." 

"Why  then  the  question  ?" 

"Is  the  story  humorous?  Pathetic?  Witty?  Adven 
turesome  ?" 

"Perhaps  it's  like  the  players  in  Hamlet — tragical- 
comical-historical-pastoral." 

"Ah!"     Janet's  exclamation  was  replete  with  disgust. 

They  bandied  words  a  little  longer.  Would  he  let  her 
see  the  story?  What?  Not  good  enough?  Absurd.  If 
it  wasn't  good  enough  to  read,  how  could  he  hope  to  sell 
it?  He  didn't  intend  to  sell  it?  Well,  all  she  could  say 
was  that  a  writer  who  thought  himself  above  healthy  criti 
cism  and  normal  competition  was  a — a — a — a 

"A  what?"  Guido  inquired.  He  was  intensely  amused. 
But  his  amusement  faded  away  quite  suddently,  for  there 
was  a  look  of  blind  pain  in  the  girl's  eyes  that  wrung  his 
soul  into  swift  contrition. 

"Of  course  I'll  be  glad  to  have  you  read  the  story  if 
you  really  think  it  worth  your  time,"  he  said,  gallantly. 

"It  was  worth  your  time,  wasn't  it?"  Janet  demanded, 
sharply.  But  she  was  now  entirely  appeased,  as  he  could 
see. 

"It  was  well  worth  his  time,  Janet,"  said  the  Professor, 
"well  worth  his  time." 

Janet  and  Guido  looked  at  each  other.  In  their  eyes  was 
the  candid  admiration  of  two  opposing  knights  after  a 


YOUTH  337 

gallantly  fought  tilting  match.  The  pain  had  completely 
died  out  of  her  eyes.  Quite  a  different  emotion  was  mir 
rored  there  now.  What  he  saw  made  Guido  catch  his 
breath.  His  own  eyes  responded  to  hers  and  then,  unac 
countably,  a  swift,  engulfing  shyness  of  each  other  and  the 
subject  smote  them  into  silence.  Nor  did  Janet  ask  Guido 
for  the  story  again  nor  did  he  offer  it  to  her.  Guide's 
first-born  was  not  referred  to  again.  He  completed  it  and 
then  suffered  it  to  languish  in  the  dusty  gloom  of  the 
string-and-nail  drawer  of  the  Professor's  desk. 

"Uncle  Ned,"  said  Cecil,  "did  you  see  that  the  papers 
are  renewing  the  European  War  specter  this  morning? 
They  buried  it  in  an  inside  page  among  a  lot  of  local  news 
items  of  no  consequence  whatever." 

"I  didn't  happen  to  notice  the  item  you  speak  of,"  said 
Professor  Geddes,  "but  I  did  see  that  Germany  is  trying 
to  lay  down  the  law  to  us.  She  has  notified  us  that  ex 
clusive  American  control  of  the  Haitian  customs  will  not 
be  agreeable  to  the  Imperial  German  government.  An 
American  warship,  with  seven  hundred  marines  on  board, 
has  been  ordered  down  to  Port  au  Prince." 

"Then,"  said  Cecil  decisively,  "that  may  drag  you  into 
the  European  War." 

"The  European  War?"  Guido  demanded,  in  surprise. 
"What  are  you  talking  about,  Cecil?" 

"The  General  War  which  is  coming,"  Cecil  replied, 
briefly. 

"How  do  you  know  that  a  war  is  coming?" 

"Oh,  everybody  in  Europe  knows  it  is  coming,"  Cecil 
replied.  "I  remember  as  a  little  chap  of  ten  hearing  my 
father  and  uncle  argue  about  it  by  the  hour." 

"I  also  heard  it  discussed  when  I  was  abroad,"  Pro 
fessor  Geddes  remarked,  thoughtfully. 

"But  why  should  there  be  a  war  at  this  time?"  Guido 
inquired. 

"Because  of  the  Serajevo  murder,"  said  Cecil.  "Any 
old  thing  is  good  enough  to  serve  as  a  pretext,  you  know." 

"I  don't  understand  at  all,"  said  Guido.  "Nations  don't 
go  to  war  now-a-days,  do  they,  unless  they  have  a  good 
reason  ?" 

"You  mustn't  judge  European  affairs  and  the  European 


338  THE  HYPHEN 

way  of  doing  things  by  the  American  viewpoint,"  said 
Cecil,  evasively. 

"Yes — but  you  speak  of  a  pretext,  and  everybody  know 
ing  that  a  war  is  coming,  and — what  does  it  all  mean?" 

"Well,  because,  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir !"  The  apology 
was  anticipatory  and  was  addressed  to  Grossvater  Geddes 
and  to  Dr.  Koenig.  "We  in  England  think  that  Germany 
has  got  it  in  for  us — at  least  that's  what  some  people  in 
England  think." 

"But  why  should  Germany  wish  to  harm  England?" 
Grossvater  Geddes  asked,  genuinely  surprised.  "Germany 
has  become  so  rich  and  strong  in  the  last  two  decades." 

"Sometimes  a  man  who  becomes  rich  and  strong  over 
night  develops  an  insatiable  greed  and  a  hatred  of  everyone 
who  stands  in  his  way,"  Cecil  said,  a  little  reluctantly.  It 
was  plain  that  he  feared  to  give  offense  to  the  old  Ger- 
manophile.  "Germany  would  have  gone  to  war  at  the 
time  of  the  Morocco  incident,  I  have  heard  my  English 
cousins  say,  if  there  had  not  been  so  much  money  owing 
Germany  from  England.  Germany  was  loth  to  forfeit  that 
money,  and  she  backed  down.  But  now  the  situation  is 
reversed.  Germany  owes  England  money,  not  England 
Germany." 

"What  a  lot  Cecil  knows  about  European  affairs,"  Guido 
thought  a  little  enviously. 

"But  that  was  a  long  time  ago,"  said  Grossvater  Geddes 
amiably,  "and  there  has  been  no  quarrel  since." 

Cecil  did  not  reply,  and  Professor  Geddes  said: 

"Speak  up,  Cecil.  This  is  Liberty  Hall.  Each  man  has 
a  right  to  his  own  opinion." 

"Well,  Uncle  Ned,  it's  this  way.  You  know  England 
has  offered  time  and  again  not  to  increase  her  fleet  if 
Germany  will  only  promise  to  do  the  same.  Germany 
invariably  declines  to  bind  herself  by  a  promise." 

"Why  should  she?"  Grossvater  Geddes  remarked.  "The 
German  fleet  is  still  much  smaller  than  the  English?" 

"Nor  need  it  be  as  large,"  Cecil  rejoined.  "The  British 
Empire  is  distributed  over  the  face  of  the  earth.  The  high 
seas  are  the  arteries  of  commerce,  our  merchantmen  are 
the  blood  that  gives  them  life,  and  our  fleet  protects  that 
life." 

"Germany  has  colonies,  too." 


YOUTH  339 

"Not  to  compare  with  England's,  sir !  Not  at  the  present 
time.  What  her  intentions  may  be  in  the  future  no  honest 
man  cares  to  think  about.  Why,  sir,  it's  like  this.  The 
German  army  is  much  finer  and  larger  and  better  than 
the  English.  Germany  needs  an  army,  she  says.  Does  it 
worry  us?  Not  tuppence,  sir.  Why  should  it?  It's  none 
of  our  business.  It's  none  of  our  business  any  more  than 
the  superiority  of  our  fleet  is  Germany's.  But  Germany, 
sir,  would  have  cause  for  concern  and  the  right  to  ask 
questions  if  we  in  England  suddenly  aimed  to  build  up 
an  army  as  big  and  as  fine  as  the  German,  or  bigger  and 
finer.  And  you  must  not  forget,  sir,  that  the  German 
Emperor,  upon  one  historic  occasion  said  that  Germany's 
future  lies  upon  the  water.  What  does  that  mean,  sir?" 

"Then  England  hates  Germany?" 

"By  no  means.  We  admire  many  of  her  institutions. 
We  are  willing,  nay,  eager  to  be  friends.  If  we  hated 
Germany,  sir,  would  we  have  ceded  the  northern  Gibraltar, 
Heligoland,  I  mean,  to  her  little  over  a  decade  ago  in  return 
for  an  African  island  of  commercial  importance  but  of 
strategic  insignificance  ?" 

"But  what  good  would  Heligoland  have  done  England?" 
Grossvater  Geddes  fenced.  "Any  attempt  on  Britain's  part 
to  fortify  it  would  have  aroused  Germany's  instant  hos 
tility." 

"Of  course.  But  British  ownership  would  have  precluded 
German  fortifications ;  would  have  given  us,  you  know,  a 
sort  of  geographical  hostage  for  Germany's  good  behavior." 

"I  think  you  British  are  imagining  things,"  said  Gross 
vater  Geddes,  placidly.  "My  dear,"  this  to  his  daughter- 
in-law,  "how  delicious  this  chicken  is." 

Dobronov  sat  staring  at  his  plate,  heaped  high  with 
chicken,  creamed  potatoes,  rich  brown  gravy,  spinach  and 
apple  jelly  in  something  like  consternation.  Mrs.  Geddes 
who  had  been  aware  of  his  quandary  for  some  time,  said 
in  the  most  matter-of-fact  tone: 

"Mr.  Dobronov — I  am  so  sorry — it  was  quite  impossible 
at  dinner-time  to  prepare  you  a  special  dish  of  cereal — 
we'll  be  glad  to  do  so  to-night,  if  you  really  object  to  our 
way  of  living,  although  I  assure  you,  since  we  keep 
chickens  and  have  a  vegetable  garden,  this  dinner  costs  us 
next  to  nothing.  Cereals,  of  course,  we  must  buy." 


340  THE  HYPHEN 

Dobronov  colored  furiously.  It  was  the  first  time  Guido 
had  seem  him  show  signs  of  being  a  social  human  being 
and  not  merely  an  embodied  human  soul.  It  amused  Guido 
vastly  to  see  how  the  breeding  of  the  man  of  birth  triumphed 
over  the  snobbery  of  the  religious  fanatic. 

"I  beg  of  you  not  to  inconvenience  yourself,  Mrs. 
Geddes,"  Dobronov  said.  "I  shall  enjoy  this  dinner  enor 
mously,  I  know,  and  future  dinners  and  suppers  as  well." 

Guido,  regarding  Mrs.  Geddes,  reflected  that  much  as  he 
had  admired  that  lady's  social  tact  and  manner  in  the 
past,  he  had  woefully  underrated  her  psychological  re 
sources. 

The  papers  the  next  morning  contained  the  astonishing 
news  that  Austria  was  ready  to  invade  Serbia. 

"But  don't  they  serve  notice  on  each  other  in  Europe 
before  they  go  to  war?"  Guido  inquired. 

Cecil  and  Professor  Geddes  laughed. 

"Oh,  of  course,  they  declare  war  formally  some  time 
or  other,"  Cecil  replied,  "but  not  necessarily  before  striking 
the  first  blow." 

"But "  said  Guido,  and  relapsed  into  silence.  He 

was  unable  to  formulate  his  objection.  It  was  diffuse, 
general,  unspecific,  and  it  was  directed  against  the  crown 
ing  idiocy  of  the  European  scheme  of  things. 

By  the  following  Saturday  the  papers  had  emerged  so 
far  from  their  lethargy  of  indifference  as  to  play  up  big 
the  news  that  a  general  European  war  seemed  imminent, 
although  the  papers  still  expressed  the  hope  that  the  Czar 
would  avert  the  disaster  by  keeping  out  of  the  mix-up 
between  Austria  and  Serbia. 

On  Sunday  there  was  no  delivery  of  mail,  and  the  news 
paper  cart  was  not  due  before  eleven.  When  the  house 
assembled  for  nine-o'clock  breakfast  consisting  of  inch-deep 
omelette  souffle  with  home-made  jam,  and  biscuits  with 
sweet  butter,  and  flap-jacks  with  maple  syrup  and  cracked 
wheat  with  double  cream,  Cecil  was  missing.  Maggie,  on 
being  interrogated,  explained  that  Master  Cecil  had  taken 
the  car  and  gone  down  to  the  village  to  meet  the  newspaper 
train. 

"On  an  empty  stomach?"  inquired  the  Professor. 

"Oh,  no,  sir !"    Maggie  was  quite  offended.    "Of  course 


YOUTH  341 

I  made  him  some  coffee  and  toast,  and  I  fried  him  a 
rasher  of  bacon  and  some  potatoes." 

"He'll  be  ready  for  more  breakfast  when  he  gets  back," 
said  Mrs.  Geddes. 

"Yes,  mum,"  said  Maggie.  "It's  what  meself  has  been 
thinking.  I've  kept  him  some  biscuit  dough,  mum,  and  I'll 
have  some  hot  flapjacks  for  him,  too." 

Cecil  came  in  just  as  the  family  was  beginning  on  the 
third  pan  of  biscuits  and  the  fourth  glass  of  apple-jelly. 
He  waved  the  "Times"  tragically. 

"It's  come,  Uncle  Ned,"  he  said,  "the  War  has  arrived." 

"Not "  Professor  Geddes  ejaculated.  He  laid  down 

the  morsel  of  biscuit  and  jelly  which  had  been  in  transit 
from  plate  to  mouth  and  looked  concerned — or  tried 
to.  The  charge  of  gluttony  could  not  be  laid  to  his  door, 
but  he  shared  the  amiable  failing  inhering  in  most  gentle 
men  of  sedentary  pursuits — he  thoroughly  enjoyed  the 
pleasures  of  the  table.  So  that  it  was  not  an  entirely  easy 
matter  in  the  midst  of  Sunday  morning's  gustatory  ex 
ercises,  with  gastronomic  pleasure  before  and  after,  to  look 
terribly  upset  and  startled,  particularly  as,  to  the  American 
mind,  the  prospect  of  a  general  war  did  not  seem  in  the 
least  plausible. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Cecil,  "Austria's  gone  and  done  it.  She's 
broken  off  diplomatic  relations  with  Serbia." 

"Ah,  if  that  is  all !"  Professor  Geddes  salvaged  the 
neglected  morsel  of  buscuit  from  his  plate  and  conveyed 
it  to  his  mouth  with  a  semi-guilty  air. 

"Of  course,"  Cecil  continued,  seating  himself  and  help 
ing  himself  to  three  biscuits,  "of  course,  Austria  meant  to 
do  this  from  the  start.  That  forty-eight-hour  ultimatum 
to  Serbia  made  Austria's  intentions  clear,  I  should  think." 

"What  I  cannot  understand,"  said  Guido,  "is  why  all 
this  should  happen  now.  The  Serbian  crime  happened  at 
least  three  weeks  ago,  didn't  it?" 

"On  June  28th,"  said  Cecil,  briefly,  again  exciting  Guido's 
admiration  and  envy  by  his  precise  knowledge. 

"Then,  why  didn't  Austria  act  at  once  ?"  Guido  demanded. 

"That's  just  it,  of  course!"  Cecil  exclaimed,  excitedly, 
in  his  preoccupation  talking  with  a  full  mouth.  "She's 
been  hatching  mischief  betwixt  times." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  more  charitable  to  suppose  that  she's  been 


342  THE  HYPHEN 

investigating  matters  in  the  meantime,"  Grossvater  Geddes 
suggested,  blandly,  and  Dr.  Koenig  grunted  assent  in  this 
view. 

"But,"  said  Guido,  beginning  with  his  favorite  con 
nective  of  protest,  "but — if  it  took  Austria  a  full  month 
to  investigate  matters,  and  to  think  them  over,  why  didn't 
she  give  Serbia  more  time  than  one-fifteenth  of  a  month 
to  do  her  investigating  and  thinking  over." 

"Well,"  said  Professor  Geddes,  "let's  forget  about 
Europe  for  a  while  and  thank  Heaven  we  are  in  America, 
where  the  murder  of  one  or  two  or  a  dozen  persons,  no 
matter  how  high  they  stand  in  the  public  esteem,  cannot 
plunge  a  nation  into  war." 

After  that  Europe  very  quickly  became  incomprehensible 
and  unintelligible  to  American  ideas.  Everybody  seemed 
to  be  threatening  everybody  else  with  war,  and  everybody's 
business  had  become  everybody  else's.  Germany  threatened 
Russia  and  Russia  threatened  Germany.  Austria  invaded 
Serbian  territory;  London  continued  to  work  strenuously 
for  peace.  It  was  an  imbroglio  utterly  beyond  the  com 
prehension  of  the  normal  American  mind,  uninitiated  in 
and  uncontaminated  by  European  political  aspirations, 
conventions  and  suspicions.  Finally,  by  end  of  the  week, 
the  situation  had  become  so  far  clarified  that  one  circum 
stance  stood  old  boldly.  THE  PEACE  OF  EUROPE 
WAS  IN  THE  KAISER'S  HANDS ! 

Guide's  heart  pulsed  more  quickly,  and,  truth  to  tell, 
pulsed  more  proudly.  From  a  boy  he  had,  as  we  know, 
entertained  a  profound  admiration  for  the  Kaiser.  This 
Hohenzollern,  he  thought,  was  different  from  those  early 
predecessors,  the  Grand  Elector,  Frederick  the  Great, 
Frederick's  brutish  and  brutal  father,  even  William  the 
First,  who  had  declined  into  a  mere  tool  in  the  able  but 
evil  hands  of  Bismarck.  This  Hohenzollern,  Guido  thought, 
was  much  like  his  father,  that  noble  scion  of  an  evil  stock 
who,  had  he  lived,  would  have  introduced  parliamentary 
reforms  in  Germany  and  made  Germans  a  politically  free 
people  with  the  privileges  and  responsibilities  of  freemen. 

Guido  was  proud — quite  inordinately,  ridiculously  proud 
of  his  Kaiser  for  just  two  days.  Then,  on  August  ist, 
came  the  final  thunderclap: 

"A  fateful  hour  has  fallen.    Envious  peoples  everywhere 


YOUTH  343 

are  compelling  us  to  our  just  defense.  The  sword  is  forced 
into  our  hands " 

So  said  William,  so  soon  to  brand  himself  as  "The 
Damned"  by  his  ruthlessness,  his  hypocrisy,  his  general 
policy  of  sustained  and  deliberate  cruelty. 

Thus  read  the  astonished  boy — thus  read  an  astonished 
world.  Cecil  grunted  comprehendingly. 

"I  say,  Guy,"  he  said,  "don't  ask  me  any  questions  at 
the  table  now,  will  you?  I  don't  want  to  hurt  Grossvater 
Geddes'  feelings,  but  that  Kaiser,  you  know,  he's  a  rotter." 

Cecil  then  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  whistling 
merrily  went  off  for  one  of  his  long  hikes  without  asking 
Guido  to  come  with  him. 

That  was  well.  For  Guido  was  angry,  very,  very  angry 
and  indignant  with  his  beloved  Cecil.  Hero-worship  is  as 
indispensable  to  the  adolescent  mind  as  walking  is  to  the 
growing  body.  Guido  had  been  unfortunate  in  his  choice 
of  a  living  hero — for  defunct  heroes  must  be  supplemented 
by  those  who  still  draw  breath — that  was  all. 

But,  although  angry,  Guido  was  not  nearly  as  angry  as 
he  was  trying  to  make  himself  believe — at  least  not  with 
Cecil. 

For  there  had  come  over  him  during  the  last  days  a 
great  and  salient  change.  He  had  been  assailed  by  grave 
doubts.  Discrepancies,  overlooked  in  the  first  flush  of 
amazement  which  enwrapped  a  world  that  had  suddenly 
committed  itself  to  insanity,  had  grilled  and  harrowed  him. 
Slowly,  gradually,  there  was  beginning  to  dawn  upon  him 
the  truth.  William,  whom  he  would  fain  have  absolved, 
was  unabsolvable — whether  he  was  the  chief  instigator  of 
this  Crime  of  Crimes; — as  Cecil  seemed  to  think — or,  like 
the  grandfather  whose  name  he  bore,  merely  the  catspaw 
of  men  far  more  clever,  more  ambitious  and  more  un 
scrupulous  than  himself. 

The  anger  and  indignation  directed  against  Cecil,  there 
fore,  was  the  last  feeble  barricade  behind  which  his  ancient 
faith  was  entrenching  itself.  But  the  crumbling  process 
had  begun.  Guido  would  make  a  few  more  defensive  state 
ments,  half -believing  them,  half-expecting  them  to  be  con 
troverted,  and  avid  all  the  while  for  valid  information  that 
would  shed  light  on  the  motives,  the  origin,  the  inception 
of  the  Ghoulish  Crime.  Then,  quite  suddently,  it  was  writ- 


344  THE  HYPHEN 

ten  that  his  faith  in  William  should  be  splintered  into  mere 
slivers  and  he  should  be  harrowed  by  the  wormwood 
anguish  which  befalls  those  who  have  given  faith — the 
holiest  and  most  generous  gift  which  lies  within  the  juris 
diction  of  the  human  heart — where  faith  is  not  due. 

Guido  was  still  fuming  and  spluttering  about  the  veranda 
in  his  futile  efforts  to  underprop  and  save  his  decaying 
faith  when  Dr.  Koenig  appeared  with  a  face  like  a  thunder 
cloud. 

"I'm  going  home  on  the  early  afternoon  train,"  he  said. 
"I  don't  want  to  quarrel  with  my  old  friend  again.  I 
almost  quarrelled  with  him  just  now.  And  don't  ask  fool 
questions  at  dinner." 

"And  do  you,  too,  blame  the  Kaiser?"  Guido  inquired. 

"Blame  him?  Good  Lord.  I  admit  I  was  taken  in  by 
his  superb  pose  for  a  few  days.  Bah!  Why  doesn't  all 
Europe  follow  our  example?  A  bad  lot.  Curse  'em  all. 
May  their  heads  topple  off  with  their  crowns!" 

Still  Guido  clung  to  the  last  vestige  of  his  tottering  faith. 

"Didn't  the  Kaiser  try  to  maintain  peace?"  he  asked, 
feebly. 

This  was  the  last  straw  for  Dr.  Koenig.  He  began  tramp 
ing  wildly  up  and  down  the  veranda,  roaring  out  disjointed 
sentences  as  he  tramped. 

"The  Kaiser  tried  to  maintain  peace,  did  he?"  he 
shouted.  "Tried !  Hear  him,  ye  powers  that  reign  above, 
hear  him !  Oh,  oracular  Synthesis  !  Is  this  then  the  goal  ? 
Ha,  only  the  Great  Potter,  if  Potter  there  be  and  not 
merely  Pot,  may  experiment  in  human  clay.  Pan  pipes, 
Bias  reigns  supreme  and  Error  stalks  the  earth.  Troy 
was  sacked  for  lesser  sacrilege  than  this." 

Guido  had  never  seen  the  old  physician  in  such  a  state 
of  wild  abandon.  He  could  not  guess  what  had  excited 
him  so  terribly.  The  lad  knew  his  Greek  mythology  very 
well,  but  he  had  never  heard  of  a  god — or  goddess — by 
the  name  of  Bias  nor  of  an  oracle  called  Synthesis.  He 
was  seized  with  a  horrid  fear  that  Dr.  Koenig  had  gone 
suddenly  insane.  He  said,  soothingly: 

"I  dare  say  he  didn't  try  hard  enough." 

This  concession,  far  from  calming  Dr.  Koenig,  seemed 
to  vex  him  still  more.  He  made  as  if  to  speak,  then  shut  his 


YOUTH  345 

mouth  with  a  snap,  and  finally,  after  vociferating  a  furious 
"Bah!"  strode  into  the  house. 

A  few  minutes  later  Dobronov  appeared,  grip  in  hand. 

"I  thought  you  had  accepted  Mrs.  Geddes'  invitation  to 
stay  another  week?"  Guido  questioned  him  in  surprise. 

"So  I  did,"  Dobronov  replied.  There  was  a  wild  look 
in  his  eyes  and  his  face  was  haggard,  "but  the  War,  of 
course,  was  not  to  be  foreseen.  Important  business  takes 
me  back  to  New  York." 

"Sergius  Ivanovich,"  said  Guido,  "you  are  a  European 
and  you  must  understand  European  affairs  better  than  I 
do.  Tell  me,  explain  to  me,  what  is  it  all  about?  Surely, 
all  the  great  powers,  England,  France,  Russia,  Austria, 
Germany  aren't  going  to  war  because  one  poor  crazed  fool 
threw  a  bomb  and  killed  an  archduke  and  his  morganatic 
wife!" 

Guido  spoke  with  desperate  intensity.  He  spoke  to  give 
vent  to  his  indignant  bewilderment  rather  than  because 
he  hoped  to  elicit  any  illuminating  information  from 
Dobronov,  who,  he  believed,  had  strayed  too  far  from  the 
beaten  tracks  of  human  action  and  thought  to  take  a  con 
ventional  view  of  any  purely  worldly  matter. 

"I  will  tell  you  what  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole 
thing,"  Dobronov  replied.  "I  can  explain  the  entire  situa 
tion  to  you  in  a  monosyllable.  Fear!  Everybody  in 
Europe  is  afraid  of  everybody  else  and  that  is  the  truth. 
Russia  is  afraid  that  Austria  will  subjugate  and  annex 
Serbia.  She  is  afraid  also  that  Germany  will  help  Austria 
and  become  the  dominant  factor  in  Europe.  Germany 
suffers  from  chronic  Russophobia,  which  of  course  is  in 
tensified  a  hundredfold  at  the  moment.  And  Germany  is 
always  in  mortal  terror  of  England.  France  she  fears  as 
a  matter  of  habit  and  France  fears  Germany  because  Ger 
many  is  her  historical  foe.  Now  it  is  a  psychological 
truism  that  when  a  man  is  badly  frightened  he  will  keep 
quiet  for  a  certain  length  of  time  only.  If  his  fear  is 
prolonged  beyond  a  given  point  of  time,  his  nervous  ten 
sion  Becomes  so  great  that,  automatically,  it  translates  it 
self  into  action.  There,  in  a  nutshell,  you  have  the  Euro 
pean  situation,  for  what  is  true  of  fear  in  the  individual 
is  also  true  of  national  fear,  and,  when  fear  is  held  in 
common  by  a  large  number  of  human  units,  it  assumes 


346  THE  HYPHEN 

proportions  and  acquires  a  momentum  which  the  fear  of 
one  individual  can  of  course  never  achieve." 

Guido  stared  in  astonishment  at  Dobronov.  At  last 
Sergius  Ivanovich  had  said  something  eminently  sensible. 

Dobronov  continued : 

"I  do  not  wish  you  to  believe,"  he  said,  "that  I  have 
arrived  at  this  solution  of  the  European  problem  unaided. 
I  have  been  prepared  to  understand  these  events  during 
the  past  six  months.  I  might  as  well  tell  you — I  have  all 
but  decided  to  embrace  Christian  Science." 

"What?"  Guido  exclaimed.  "The  last  time  I  saw  you 
you  were  going  to  join  the  Unitarian  or  the  Universalist 
Church — I  forget  which." 

"Either  or  both,"  the  amazing  Dobronov  replied.  "I've 
changed  my  mind  since.  Neither  faith  satisfies  me.  Both 
cramp  the  spirit.  The  Universalists  build  their  schedule 
of  belief  about  a  commonplace,  a  self-evident  phase  of 
Christianity.  I  don't  believe  there  is  anywheres  to-day 
an  intelligent  Christian  who  believes  in  perpetual  damna 
tion.  Then  why  use  the  obvious  as  a  nucleus  for  a  faith? 
The  Unitarians  go  to  the  other  extreme.  They  affirm 
something  which  cannot  be  affirmed  any  more  than  its  re 
verse  can  be  affirmed.  Who  so  presumptuous  as  to  decide 
whether  or  not  Jesus  was  divine?  Say  he  wasn't,  using 
the  word  in  the  usual  sense.  Still,  human  perfection 
carried  to  his  point  spells  divinity.  It  is  undignified  to 
cavil  about  this  point.  It  is  worse  than  that — it  is  ir 
reverent." 

"In  time,"  said  Guido,  "you  will  discover  something  to 
make  you  disavow  your  faith  in  Christian  Science." 

"Never!  They  are  unequivocally  right  in  their  belief 
that  God.  is  Truth,  that  nothing  exists  but  Truth,  that  sick 
ness  and  sin  and  sorrow  are  carnal  thought  objectified — 
evil  imaginings  as  they  were.  They  are  absolutely  right  in 
proscribing  fear — it  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  earthly  ills. 
Their  teachings  have  made  me  understand  the  reason  why 
I  like  and  respect  Dmitri  Stepanovich,  although  I  disagree 
entirely  with  his  teachings  and  with  his  activity.  But  both 
he  and  his  cousin,  Varvara  Alexandrovna,  do  not  know  the 
meaning  of  fear.  And  that  brings  me  to  the  matter  which 
forces  me  to  leave  so  abruptly.  Can  I  trust  you?" 

Guido  assured  him  that  he  could,  realizing,  with  a  sink- 


YOUTH  347 

ing  of  the  heart  that  Dobronov  was  about  to  forsake  the 
high  road  of  sanity  for  one  of  those  devious  blind  alleys 
into  which,  sooner  or  later,  he  seemed  always  to  stray. 

Dobronov  invited  Guido  to  follow  him  to  the  hat  and 
coat  room,  probably  because  it  was  the  only  room  on  the 
lower  floor  which  boasted  of  doors.  Having  closed  these, 
he  seated  himself  on  a  settee  and  motioned  to  Guido  to 
do  likewise.  Guido  had  a  fascinated  sense  of  being  en 
gaged  in  some  dark  conspiracy. 

Having  taken  these  precautions  to  obtain  privacy,  Do 
bronov  told  his  story  in  a  hushed  voice. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "that  I  am  a  believer  in  the  Doc 
trine  of  Non-Resistance.  Dmitri  Stepanovich,  while  a  man 
of  peace  and  a  detestor  of  war,  believes  that  force,  at 
times,  is  justifiable.  All  this  you  of  course  comprehend. 
What  follows?  As  a  Non-Resister,  self-evidently,  I  believe 
that  all  men  should  do  as  they  please.  I  do  not  believe 
in  punishment  or  in  imprisonment.  If  Vasalov's  conscience 
tells  him  he  must  resist  evil,  that  is  no  reason  why  I  should 
change  my  mind  and  say  that  Evil  should  resist  him  for 
resisting  itself  by  imprisoning  or  exiling  him.  Do  you 
follow  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Guido.  He  thought:  "Poor  old  Dob  has 
gone  stark  raving  mad.  If  the  War  does  this  to  us,  who 
are  safe  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  what  spiritual  and 
mental  havoc  must  it  bring  to  the  poor  humans  in  Europe !" 

Dobronov  continued: 

"Now,  since  Evil  does  not  really  exist,  Vasalov,  in 
throwing  his  bombs,  really  does  nothing  wrong.  Ap 
parently,  however,  he  does.  It  is  plain,  moreover,  that  of 
the  War  really  comes  off,  a  terrible  amount  of  wrong 
thinking  will  be  objectified  and  cross  the  wires  of  truth  and 
obscure  divine  mind.  Do  you  follow  me?" 

"I  do,"  said  Guido,  weakly. 

"Well,  then,  if  Vasalov,  by  throwing  half  a  dozen  of  his 
death-dealing  bombs,  which,  in  truth,  do  not  exist  at  all, 
can  prevent  all  this  mass  of  carnal  thought  from  being 
unloaded  upon  the  world,  is  it  right  that  he  should  go 
ahead  and  do  it,  or  should  he  not?  Because  I  who  am  a 
Non-Resister,  happen  to  have  thought  the  matter  out,  is  it 
for  me  to  keep  the  light  from  poor  Vasalov  who,  since 
he  believes  that  he  does  right  in  throwing  bombs,  does 


348  THE  HYPHEN 

no  wrong,  and  wouldn't  do  wrong  even  if  the  bombs  were 
actual  things,  which,  of  course,  they  are  not,  being  mere 
figments  of  carnal  imagination?  In  brief,  if  a  small  dosage 
of  evil  belief  can  prevent  an  enormous  flood  of  carnal 
mind  from  engulfing  the  world,  who  am  I  to  stay  the  hand 
— Vasalov's  hand — which  can  guide  the  evil  which  is  to  act 
medicinally  upon  the  world?" 

Guido  sat  back  and  stared.     Just  stared. 

Dobronov,  with  a  look  toward  door  and  windows,  con 
tinued  : 

"I  will  be  brief.  Vasalov's  organization  has  branches 
everywhere.  Now,  Russia,  England  and  France  are  Allies. 
If  Russia  fights,  defensively,  England  and  France  will 
fight,  being  bound  by  treaty  to  do  so.  What  are  they  fighting 
about?  Ostensibly  because  a  Serbian  lunatic  murdered  an 
Austrian  fool.  Now — if  only  I  can  get  Vasalov  to  see 
my  point — if  he  arranegs  to  have  an  Englishman  blow  off 
the  head  of  the  French  President,  to  have  a  Frenchman 
blow  off  the  head  of  the  Russian  Czar,  to  have  a  Russian 
do  the  same  for  King  George,  leaving  the  Kaiser  to  be 
dispatched  by  an  Austrian — don't  you  see  what  is  bound 
to  happen?  Russia,  England  and  France  would  have  to 
fight  each  other,  and  so  would  Austria  and  Germany.  But, 
as  the  powers  on  both  sides  are  bound  by  treaty  to  help 
each  other  against  a  common  foe,  you  will  perceive  what 
a  hopeless  situation  would  arise.  Armageddon  would 
checkmate  itself  and  come  to  nought.  Well,  what  do  you 
think  of  my  plan?" 

"I  think,"  said  Guido,  faintly,  "you  had  better  see 
Vasalov  about  it."  Arguments,  as  he  knew,  were  of  no 
avail  when  Dobrnov  was  in  the  grip  of  a  new,  self-evolved 
idea.  The  idea,  like  a  sickness,  must  run  its  course. 

Dinner  was  a  gloomy  affair  that  day.  Dobronov  and 
Dr.  Koenig  ate  their  meal  hurriedly,  the  Professor,  who 
had  promised  to  drive  them  down  to  Three  Corners  him 
self,  assuring  them  repeatedly  that  there  was  not  the  least 
necessity  for  haste.  Dobronov  had  so  far  succumbed  to 
the  usages  of  polite  society,  that  sooner  than  put  his 
hostess  to  the  inconvenience  of  having  an  early  dinner  pre 
pared  for  him,  he  had  consented  to  travel  by  car  down  the 
mountain  which  he  had  laboriously  ascended  on  foot  a 
week  earlier. 


YOUTH  349 

Dr.  Koenig  refused  to  shake  hands  with  Guido.  He 
fairly  bristled  when  the  boy  approached  him. 

"I  am  disappointed  in  you,"  he  said,  coldly. 

Grossvater  Geddes  made  an  unfortunate  remark. 

"By  and  by  you  will  see,  Koenig,"  he  said,  "that  Ger 
many  is  not  so  much  to  blame  as  you  now  think.  I  have 
been  looking  over  the  papers  of  the  last  week  and  the 
Kaiser  expressly  says  that  the  sword  was  forced  upon 
him,  that  the  war,  as  far  as  Germany  is  concerned,  is  a 
purely  defensive  war." 

Dr.  Koenig  already  had  one  foot  on  the  step  of  the 
automobile.  He  withdrew  it.  He  faced  Grossvater  Geddes 
and  tried  to  speak,  but  succeeded  in  producing  no  sound. 
His  face  was  terrible  to  behold.  Livid  at  first,  it  suddenly 
turned  purple,  and  his  eyes  bulged  angrily  from  his  head. 
Finally  he  regained  his  power  of  speech. 

"I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Geddes,"  he  cried.  "You,  you, 
of  all  men!  To  quote  a  Hohenzollern.  To  quote  this 
Kaiser  with  the  blighted  arm  and  the  withered  heart  as 
if  he  were  worth  quoting!"  Like  an  avalanche  the  old 
physician's  angry  oration  rolled  on.  Had  Grossvater 
Geddes  forgotten  the  Year  Forty-eight?  Had  he  forgotten 
his  lovely  young  sister  who  died  from  the  effects  of  her 
dreadful  midwinter  flight  from  Berlin?  Had  he  forgotten 
how  this  wretch's  grandfather  had  robbed  him  and  his — 
under  the  polite  term  of  confiscation — of  all  his  personal 
effects,  of  all  the  wonderful  old  plate  and  jewelry  and 
porcelains  and  paintings  and  laces  which  had  been  the 
treasured  heirlooms  of  centuries?  And  he  pointed  with 
scorn  unutterable  to  the  pride  which  his  old  friend  took 
in  his  room  and  in  what  it  contained.  What  did  those 
possessions  amount  to?  They  were  merest  shard,  saved 
for  him  by  friends  who  had  secretly  removed  these  much- 
prized  relics  from  his  mansion  after  the  King  had  thrust 
the  Geddes  family  into  the  street,  but  before  the  royal 
robber  could  send  his  hirelings  to  gather  in  his  plunder. 

"Have  you  forgotten  all  this?"  the  old  physician  cried. 
"I  have  not.  Ah,  I  never  thought  to  see  any  Achtund- 
vierziger  play  the  turn-coat  and  admire  and  believe  in  one 
of  that  accursed  litter,  that  breed  of  leeches  and  parasites, 
and  branded,  all  of  them  in  some  way,  like  Cain,  like 


350  THE  HYPHEN 

mavericks,   and   reigning  not  by   right   divine — God!    the 
impious  impudence  of  that — but  by  abetment  of  the  Devil !" 

The  old  man's  denunciatory  powers,  of  which  he  had 
given  such  a  pyrotechnical  display,  left  his  listeners  mute 
and  shaken.  Dr.  Koenig  himself,  now  his  passion  had 
spent  itself,  looked  crumpled  and  old. 

"I  am  not  a  vindictive  man,"  Grossvater  Geddes  replied, 
in  his  mild,  meek  way.  "Far  be  it  from  me  to  hate  or 
mistrust  this  man  because  his  forebear  persecuted  me." 

"It's  in  the  blood,  it's  in  the  blood,"  Dr.  Koenig  cried. 
"They're  a  venomous  brood.  The  Hohenzollern  record 
for  plunder,  pillage,  and  robbery  is  quite  without  parallel." 

"Germany  has  flourished  very  nicely  under  the  three  last 
representatives  of  this  line  of  plunderers,  pillagers  and 
robbers,"  Grossvater  Geddes  resorted,  smiling  syly. 

"Good  Lord !"  Dr.  Koenig  exclaimed.  "Ah,  you  are  hope 
less,  Geddes,  you  are  hopeless." 

Mrs.  Geddes  and  the  Professor  exchanged  a  quick  look. 
The  Professor,  watch  in  hand,  was  becoming  restive. 

"Grossvater,"  said  Mrs.  Geddes,  laying  her  hand  on  the 
old  man's  sleeve,  "if  you  persist  in  quarreling  with  our 
guest,  you  will  make  him  miss  his  train." 

"God  forbid,"  said  Grossvater  Geddes.  "Good-bye, 
Koenig.  When  we  meet  again,  may  we  be  of  one  mind." 

Dr.  Koenig  grunted  an  unintelligible  something  and  got 
into  the  car  where  Dobronov  was  already  ensconced.  All 
the  paraphernalia  of  Vasalov's  magic  lantern  was  stowed 
at  their  feet.  The  Professor  climbed  in  and  started  the 
car.  Everybody  cried,  "Good-bye,"  and  the  Kaiser-hater 
and  the  Non-Resister  of  Evil  were  gone  to  no  uneventful 
afternoon,  thought  those  who  remained  behind. 

Janet  said,  wickedly: 

"Mother,  do  you  think  Sergius  Ivanovich  will  be  a  Non- 
Resister  after  four  hours  of  Dr.  Koenig?  If  so,  his  powers 
of  Non-Resistance  must  be  very  great." 

Mrs.  Geddes  frowned  at  Janet  for  thus  slightingly  allud 
ing  to  a  departing  guest,  but  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
quivered. 

As  they  walked  back  to  the  house,  Janet  slipped  her 
arm  through  Guide's. 

"Guido,"  she  said,  "why  is  Dr.  Koenig  so  down  on  you  ?" 


YOUTH  351 

"Because  I  would  not  say  that  I  think  the  Kaiser  the 
worst  criminal  on  earth." 

"I  think,"  said  Janet,  "you  rather  like  the  Kaiser." 

"I  have  liked  him  until  now,"  said  Guido,  a  little  un 
steadily.  "I  admit,  my  faith  in  him  is  considerably  shaken. 
While,  of  course,  I  do  not  approve  of  the  institution  of 
monarchy,  I've  always  thought  William  the  Second  a  very 
fine,  manly  fellow.  There's  something  about  him  that 
strikes  the  imagination.  He  makes  one  think  of  those 
heroic  figures  of  the  Renaissance — men  who  combined  an 
enormous  self-esteem  with  an  enormous  sense  of  personal 
responsibility — men  who  made  history,  founded  dynasties 
and  welded  together  empires." 

Janet  looked  at  him  shyly  with  adoring  eyes. 

"He  may  not  be  as  bad  as  everybody  now  thinks  him," 
said  Guido.  "He  may  merely  be  backing  up  Austria  to 
frighten  Russia  and  France  into  keeping  out  of  the  fray." 

But  his  words  did  not  ring  true,  and  for  once  Janet  did 
not  tease  him.  There  was  a  look  of  pain  in  his  face  which 
silenced  the  mischievous  words  which  had  risen  to  her  lips. 

On  returning  from  the  village,  Professor  Geddes  brought 
with  him  the  latest  New  York  papers,  which  contained 
the  startling  news  that  the  New  York  Stock  Exchange 
had  closed. 

"Goodness,"  said  Janet,  "how  then  can  we  go  on?  I 
thought  the  New  York  Stock  Exchange  ran  the  United 
States !" 

"It  does — according  to  the  yellow  journals,"  her  father 
replied,  dryly. 

"Does  it  signify  anything  serious?"  Cecil  demanded.  "Is 
there  going  to  be  a  panic?" 

"No,  the  Stock  Exchange  closed  to  avert  a  panic.  It 
closed  to  prevent  worthless  European  stocks  from  depre 
ciating  our  market.  It's  an  eminently  sane,  safe  and  con 
servative  measure." 

Grossvater  Geddes  had  clipped  an  editorial  from  the 
"Times"  and,  with  the  querulous  firmness  of  old  age,  in 
sisted  upon  Guide's  reading  it  aloud  for  the  edification  of 
the  entire  family.  Even  Maggie  was  summoned  from  the 
kitchen  to  make  part  of  the  audience.  The  editorial, 
Grossvater  Geddes  said,  was  educational. 


352  THE  HYPHEN 

After  giving  the  rules  of  modern  warfare,  the  writer 
said: 

"All  these  rules  were  ruthlessly  violated  in  the  conduct 
of  the  Balkan  wars.  The  Balkan  States  are  not  fully 
civilized.  War  provokes  savagery,  but  a  war  involving 
the  Great  Powers  would  be  fought  with  due  restraint." 

Grossvater  Geddes  seemed  to  derive  the  utmost  satis 
faction  from  hearing  Guido  read  this  editorial  aloud.  He 
looked  from  face  to  face,  smiling  contentedly.  The  joy  of 
old  age  in  critical  discovery  is  as  great  as  the  joy  of  youth 
in  creation. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  reassuringly,  "even  if  there  is  a 
general  war,  it  will  be  fought  decently,  in  an  honest,  above- 
board,  sane  way." 

The  past  week  had  been  an  amazing  week,  but  the  week 
that  followed  outshone  and  outdistanced  it.  That,  which 
in  the  face  of  all  signs  and  portents  had  still  seemed  in 
credible,  happened.  Germany  declared  war  on  Russia; 
Russia  reciprocated  the  compliment;  Germany  declared 
war  on  France,  and  France  on  Germany;  Austria  on 
Russia,  Russia  on  Austria;  even  England,  which  through 
the  person  of  Sir  Edward  Grey  had  worked  so  sedulously, 
for  peace,  after  Belgium's  pitiful  appeal  for  help,  and 
since  her  honor  was  involved,  was  dragged  into  the  whirl 
pool.  Armageddon  had  come.  The  thing  was  unbelievable 
and  impossible,  but  the  unbelievable  and  the  impossible  had 
happened.  All  Europe  was  at  war  and  no  one,  at  least 
no  one  in  America,  could  understand  what  the  entire  pother 
was  about. 

Janet,  scanning  the  list  of  declarations  of  war,  gave  a 
giggle  reminiscent  of  school-girl  days. 

"Looks  like  a  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  opera,  doesn't  it?" 
she  asked.  "Pirates  of  Penzance  or  the  Mikado,  I  don't 
remember  which." 

"Really,  Janet,  I  fail  to  discover  any  cause  for  merri 
ment,"  said  her  father. 

Father  and  daughter  and  Guido  were  sitting  on  the 
porch  at  the  time.  One  of  the  instantaneous  changes  came 
over  Janet  which  so  baffled  Guido.  She  was  now  quite 
serious.  Guido  had  never  seen  such  lightning  transforma 
tions  in  anyone  else,  and  yet  each  mood  was  genuine  and 
natural  and  sincere. 


YOUTH  353 

"This  war  is  going  to  be  the  biggest  war  that  ever  hap 
pened,"  said  Professor  Geddes.  "To  use  a  slang  phrase, 
it  is  going  to  make  all  other  wars  look  sick.  Hundreds  of 
thousands,  perhaps  millions  of  men  are  bound  to  be  killed, 
and  not  only  men,  but  women  and  children  will  lose  their 
lives." 

"Why  women  and  children,  Daddy?"  Janet  inquired, 
who  was  now  all  tenderness  and  compassion.  "You  know 
— that  clipping  of  Grossvater's !" 

"Let  us  hope  the  writer  of  that  editorial  drew  a  reliable 
forecast.  Guido !" 

"Sir." 

"I  will  not  require  your  services  this  afternoon.  I  have 
work  to  do  in  the  library." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"I  admire  Daddy's  way  of  inviting  people  out  of  his 
library  even  more  than  his  manner  of  asking  them  in," 
said  Janet,  when  they  were  alone.  "Don't  look  at  me  in 
that  tone  of  voice,  Mr.  Morality.  Oh,  I  see.  I  laughed 
in  the  wrong  place.  Have  I  fallen  out  of  your  good 


graces 


Guido  flushed. 

"You  know  that  I  think  the  world  and  all  of  you, 
Janet,"  he  said,  with  quiet  enthusiasm.  "You  didn't  realize 
when  you  laughed  what  you  were  laughing  at." 

"Think  so?" 

"I  mean,  to  borrow  one  of  Dobronov's  Christian  Science 
expressions,  you  didn't  objectify  your  thought.  If  you  had, 
you  wouldn't  have  laughed." 

"I  love  to  hear  you  exonerate  me,  Guido,"  said  Janet, 
smiling  softly  at  him.  "It's  dear  of  you.  But  I  think  I 
do  understand  the  meaning  of  war.  Oh,  Guido !" — she 
was  all  womanly  sweetness  and  gentleness  now,  "I  am 
sick  at  heart  when  I  think  of  what  this  may  mean.  I 
don't  want  to  realize  it.  I  don't,  indeed.  Come,  let  us 
forget  all  about  it  for  a  while."  Her  mood  veered  again. 
"After  all,  Europe  is  no  concern  of  ours.  Sensible  Euro 
peans  come  to  America.  Let's  go  to  the  orchard  and  eat 
worms  and  read  poetry.  I'd  like  you  to  read  to  me  aloud. 
Will  you?  Do  you  know  that  you  read  very  well?  Yes, 
Mr.  Modesty,  you  do.  Let's  have  something  that's  real 
poetry.  No,  not  Tennyson.  Nothing  European.  Some- 


354  THE  HYPHEN 

thing  strictly  American,  something  big  and  strong  and  kind, 
like  Hiawatha  or  Evangelme  or  the  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal. 

"I  want  to  forget  all  about  Europe,"  she  rattled  on. 
"You've  never  been  abroad,  Guido  dear,  so  you  don't  know. 
They  are  all  alike.  Yes,  they  are.  Think  Americans  a 
sort  of  joke.  The  English,  too.  Watch  Cecil.  He  a 
perfect  dear,  of  course,  but  he  does  think  his  own  race 
is  just  a  wee  bit  better  than  other  races.  Never  mind, 
we'll  forgive  old  England,  she's  acting  so  decently  in  com 
ing  to  Belgium's  aid.  Guido,  you  don't  still  care  for  the 
Kaiser,  do  you?" 

Guido  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said.  "The  idol  has  toppled  from  its  pedestal 
and  is  broken  to  bits.  Oh,  Janet,  how  I  admired  that 
man !" 

For  a  moment  both  sat  in  silence,  Guido  engrossed  in 
his  thoughts,  Janet  engrossed  in  Guido.  Presently  her  soft 
little  hand  crept  silently  into  his. 

"Come,  Guido,  dear,"  she  said.  "Let's  go  read  poetry. 
What's  Hecuba  to  us,  or  we  to  Hecuba  that  we  should 
weep  for  her?  The  orchard  and  Longfellow  for  you  and 
me." 

It  was  of  course  impossible  for  anyone  possessed  of 
intelligence  and  emotions  to  maintain  this  fine  Hecuba 
aloofness  in  the  face  of  the  events  that  followed  hard 
and  fast.  The  arrival  of  the  morning  newspapers  became 
the  event  of  the  day.  Mere  letters  now  must  wait  until  at 
least  the  headlines  of  the  first  page  had  been  scanned  and 
commented  upon.  Cecil  or  Guido  drove  to  the  village  every 
afternoon  to  secure  the  latest  evening  editions  and  they 
brought  home  a  variegated  posy  of  papers,  yellow,  gray 
and  white,  not  only  for  "Waldheim,"  but  for  every  other 
cottage  in  the  Mountaintop  Colony. 

Guido  suffered  all  the  disgust  and  indignation  which 
attend  upon  misplaced  devotion  and  outraged  respect.  The 
breathless  speed  with  which  city  after  city  in  Belgium  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  Germans  bewildered  and  staggered 
him.  Brussels,  Namur,  Louvain,  Longwy,  Liege — in  less 
than  a  week  this  string  of  historical  old  cities  had  changed 
ownership.  The  Germans!  The  expression  assumed  a 
new  significance.  It  had  been  Guide's  habit  to  class  him 
self  as  a  German;  he  had  felt  that  he  was  an  American 


YOUTH  355 

by  courtesy  only.  Now  every  drop  of  blood  in  his  body 
rose  in  hot  revolt  against  such  a  designation.  German? 
Not  he.  He  harked  back  to  the  day  when  his  mother  in 
an  impassioned  plea  had  besought  him  never  to  forget  that 
he  was  American-born.  German!  He  felt  a  gratitude 
which  exceeded  words  that  that  badge  could  not  be  fastened 
upon  him. 

The  badge  of  German  nationality. 

But  how  about  the  badge  of  German  blood? 

Some  tenacious,  kindly  instinct  of  race,  of  which  he  was 
wholly  oblivious,  whispered  to  him  that  he  must  commit 
the  egregious  folly  of  attempting  to  repudiate  his  German 
blood.  It  behooved  him,  and  others  like  him,  through  pas 
sionate  condemnation  of  the  modern  German  heresy,  to 
demonstrate  to  the  world  at  large  that  the  ancient  German 
tradition  of  unassuming  decency  and  spontaneous,  warm 
hearted  kindness  was  not  entirely  defunct,  was  not  irre 
trievably  obsolete;  that  living  veins,  bounding  living  blood, 
still  responded  to  the  rhythm  of  its  beat. 

He  felt  no  misgivings,  no  doubt  that  German-Americans 
all  over  the  country  shared  his  feelings.  And  upon  these 
kindred  spirits,  upon  all  who  loved  the  ancient  German 
spirit,  because  they  loved  the  ancient  German  spirit,  there 
must  some  day  devolve  the  task  of  helping  to  rehabitate  the 
fallen  German  race. 

For  of  the  fact  that  the  German  race  was  fallen,  was 
fallen  to  quite  an  incredible  degree,  there  should  no  longer 
be  any  doubt. 

Horrible  tales  began  to  percolate  through  the  columns  of 
the  papers.  These,  at  first,  no  one  would  believe  because 
no  one  wanted  to  believe  them.  Things  so  unspeakable, 
so  hideous  and  shameful  were  related  that  Americans 
shook  their  heads  dubiously  and  spoke  of  the  exaggera 
tions  of  hysteria  and  the  psychology  of  war-fright  and  the 
odd  phenomenon  of  the  war-lie.  Americans  knew  Germans 
far  too  well  to  give  credence  to  such  wild  tales.  Why,  the 
German  contingent  in  America  ranked  as  high  or  higher 
than  any  other  alien  contingent  as  regards  thrift,  sobriety, 
truthfulness,  cleanliness  and  honesty.  Those  were  fine 
virtues,  and  a  race  in  whom  they  were  ingrained  would 
hardly  indulge  in  such  loathsome  excesses  as  the  news- 


356  THE  HYPHEN 

papers,  in  their  mistaken  zeal  to  print  dime  detective  story 
thrillers  of  real  life,  were  foisting  upon  the  public. 

Then,  Germany  had  never  been  our  enemy.  England 
had  been  our  hereditary  foe.  True,  almost  a  hundred 
years  had  elapsed  since  our  last  quarrel  with  her.  Still, 
there  had  been  that  quarrel,  and  the  other,  greater  quarrel 
which  had  antedated  it.  It  was  surprising  how  many 
Americans,  real  Americans,  to  use  Guide's  school-boy 
phrase,  gave  the  preference  to  Germany  and  the  Germans 
over  England  and  the  English. 

True,  there  was  the  undeniable,  uncircumventable  fact 
of  Belgium. 

Belgium  loomed  big,  bigger  than  Germany  or  England, 
bigger  than  Austria  or  even  amorphous  Russia ;  she  loomed 
big  because  she  opposed  heroism  to  bullyism,  because, 
small  and  defenseless,  she  had  kept  faith  while  Germany, 
bursting  with  wealth  and  man-power,  had  broken  faith. 

Belgium  had  been  a  stumbling  block  in  Germany's  way 
and  she  was  being  tortured  and  traduced  in  chastisement. 
Belgium's  plight,  her  courage,  her  fine  sense  of  honor 
appealed  to  the  American  imagination,  to  the  American 
love  of  spiritual  values  and  most  of  all  to  the  American 
habit  of  heart. 

The  nation  which  more  than  any  other  had,  as  a  matter 
of  daily  routine,  given  unstintingly  to  victims  of  earth 
quake  and  tidal  wave  and  volcanic  eruption,  to  sufferers 
from  famine  and  to  those  smitten  with  disease,  to  who 
soever  was  in  sorrow  the  world  over;  that  nation  was 
predestined  to  play  the  Lady  Bountiful  to  Belgium,  to 
sustain  and  support  her,  to  bind  up  her  wounds,  to  dress 
and  feed  and  console  her  as  far  as  it  was  possible  to 
assuage  such  suffering  as  hers. 

Disemboweled  Belgium!  A  Frenchman  with  the  French 
genius  in  the  creation  of  a  phrase,  thus  painted  Belgium's 
unnumbered  miseries  in  one  vivid  word.  Disemboweled 
Belgium!  The  phrase  stuck  in  Guide's  memory  as  if  glued 
there.  He  shuddered  when  he  remembered  it,  which  was 
often. 

There  was  not  only  Belgium,  there  was  France  as  well, 
not  to  speak  of  the  smaller  nations  of  Eastern  Europe 
which  was  being  thwacked  and  thumped  and  beaten  into 
bloody  pulp  by  the  mailed  fist. 


YOUTH  357 

And  whereas  violated  Belgium,  which  had  been  a  mere 
name  to  most  Americans  before  the  War,  kindled  in  us 
the  flame  of  compassionate  indignation,  invaded  France, 
which  was  so  much  more  than  a  mere  name,  roused  in 
us  a  burning  frenzy  of  resentment.  If  lack  of  generosity 
there  was  in  blaming  all  England  of  a  by-gone  age  for 
the  signal  stupidity  of  a  pig-headed  king,  there  was  excess 
of  generosity  in  lavishing  upon  all  France  of  the  same 
period  a  wealth  of  gratitude  for  the  doings  of  one  gallant, 
great-souled  and  big-hearted  French  gentleman,  belonging 
to  that  class  of  French  society  which  another,  entirely  dif 
ferent  class  of  French  society  had  done  its  best  to  ex 
terminate  a  few  years  later. 

At  any  rate,  France  clinched  the  case  against  Germany. 
So  much  evil  of  Germany  was  now  known  to  be  true  that 
it  gradually  became  to  be  believed  that  the  worst  charges 
might  be  true  also — charges  which  at  first  seemed  too 
exaggeratedly  lurid  to  have  any  foundation  in  fact.  The 
statesman  who  called  a  treaty  with  another  power  a  "scrap 
of  paper"  might  be  trusted  to  instigate  heaven-only-knows- 
what  outrages.  And  all  this  in  spite  of  the  editorial  from 
the  "Times"  which  Grossvater  Geddes  carried  about  with 
him,  and  read  at  least  thrice  a  day. 

We  of  America — thank  God  for  it! — think  first  with 
our  hearts  and  then  with  our  heads.  Germany,  replete, 
with  sophistry  of  such  skilled  workmanship  that,  miserable 
fraud  and  counterfeit  though  it  was,  it  might  have  passed 
muster  elsewhere  as  honest  coin  of  argument,  would  never 
be  able  to  unload  that  sophistry  upon  America  because 
of  that  queer  little  American  trick.  It  would  have  been 
well  for  Germany  if  she,  too,  had  owned  that  same  little 
trick,  or,  not  possessing  it,  had  allowed  her  heart  some 
little  freedom  of  speech  in  the  councils  of  the  head. 

And  so,  overnight,  the  sympathy  of  America  aligned 
itself.  A  relief  expedition  for  Belgium  was  promptly  fitted 
out.  Belgium  was  starving,  Belgium  was  suffering.  Bel 
gium  must  be  succored!  No  one  had  ever  knocked  in 
vaim  against  the  portals  of  our  compassion  and  Belgium 
was  to  receive  royal  largess  at  the  hands  of  the  mightiest 
democracy  on  earth. 

Sympathy  having  bestowed  itself,  America  settled  down 
once  more  to  the  treadmill  of  normal  life.  The  newspapers, 


358  THE  HYPHEN 

like  a  four-day  old  rose,  had  lost  the  first  freshness  of 
their  bloom.  The  headlines  which  had  terrified  at  first 
now  revolted  rather  than  startled.  Herod  outherodod, 
William  outwilliamed ;  the  unusual  had  become  usual,  and 
but  for  the  stark,  fiendish,  detestable,  driveling  barbarity 
of  the  whole  thing,  America  would  have  been  bored.  As 
it  was  she  was  disgusted.  The  offenses  which  had  by 
this  time  become  common  talk  were  so  unheard  of,  so 
very,  very  abominable  that  they  made  you  want  to  close 
your  nostrils  as  well  as  your  ears.  And  because  America 
was  healthy-minded,  she  tried  not  to  think  overmuch  about 
the  whole  shocking  business.  She  valiantly  plunged  her 
hand  in  her  pockets  for  coin  and  more  coin  and  still  more 
coin  whenever  she  was  told  that  coin  was  needed;  and 
let  it  go  at  that. 

Germany,  meanwhile,  still  maintaining  her  pose  of 
idealism  incarnate,  had  perceived  that  the  sympathy  which 
the  nation  of  money-grubbers  was  bestowing  elsewhere 
was  worth  something  in  Pfennigs  and  Marks.  She  per 
ceived  also  that  ultimately  that  sympathy  might  have  a 
strategic  as  well  as  a  commercial  value.  So,  to  corral 
what  American  sentiment  might  still  be  available,  she 
played  up  extraordinary  tales  of  woe  concerning  the 
atrocities  committed  by  the  bad  wicked  Belgians  upon 
innocent,  unsuspecting  German  soldiers,  who  were  merely 
doing  their  duty  for  the  Fatherland — and  for  humanity, 
too,  by  furthering  German  Kultur.  Hair-curdling  tales 
also  they  told  of  the  work  done  by  Russian  soldiers  in 
East  Prussia,  tales  which  excited  considerable  sympathy 
for  of  darkest  Russia  all  tales  might  gain  credence,  the 
average  American,  like  the  average  German-American  con 
founding  Russian  with  Cossack  and  Cossack  with  Russian, 
thinking  them  ethnographic  and  moral  equivalents.  A 
grievous  mistake  this,  for  the  Russian  peasant  is  described 
by  those  who  know  him  as  the  most  long-suffering  and  good- 
natured  human  imaginable. 

On  the  last  day  of  August  there  returned  to  the  little 
colony  at  Mountaintop  a  lady  whose  cottage  had  been 
closed  all  season,  as  she  had  gone  abroad  in  May.  She 
brought  with  her  one  child.  She  had  had  three  children 
when  she  started  for  Europe.  She  had  been  caught  in 
a  Russian  village  when  the  war  began,  and  hearing  that 


YOUTH  359 

a  battle  was  to  be  waged  in  the  immediately  proximity  of 
this  village,  had  decided  to  get  away  with  her  children 
while  there  was  yet  time.  Perverse  fate  led  her  steps 
into  the  thick  of  the  battle  instead  of  away  from  it.  She 
was  unable  to  tell  how  this  had  happened. 

"Suddenly,"  she  said,  "where  there  had  been  rolling 
meadow-land  only  a  moment  before,  men  in  uniform  sprang 
up  all  around  us." 

The  men  carried  rifles  and  little  spurts  of  smoke  and 
flame  issued  from  them  and  from  innumerable  points 
several  hundred  yards  away  which  seemed  suspended  in 
midair.  This  she  guessed  to  be  the  fire  of  the  enemy. 
Suddenly  a  terrific  noise  burst  all  around  her.  Men  came 
running  up  to  her.  She  was  terribly  frightened  for  she 
thought  they  meant  to  kill  her  and  her  children,  but  instead 
of  this  they  dragged  her  behind  an  earthwork,  bidding 
her,  by  signs,  huddle  in  back  of  that  for  protection.  The  can 
nonading  continued  all  afternoon  and  evening  and  through 
the  night.  As  long  as  there  was  light  enough  to  see  she 
saw  men  suddenly  throw  up  their  arms  and  fall  down  on 
their  faces,  or  their  back,  or  simply  crumple  up. 

The  night  fell  cold  and  damp.  Soldiers  came  and  threw 
blankets  to  her  and  the  children.  Other  soldiers  gave  her 
black  bread  and  water  and  bade  her,  again  by  signs,  re 
main  where  she  was.  The  older  children  ate  the  bread 
and  drank  the  water  and  fell  asleep.  The  youngest  child 
was  a  little  over  a  year  old.  It  was  too  young  to  eat  the 
soggy  Russian  bread  and  it  cried  with  cold  and  hunger 
until  midnight.  Then — as  she  thought — it  slept. 

All  night  the  dreadful  noise  of  the  heavy  guns  continued. 
There  came  momentary  lulls  in  the  cannonading,  and  then 
she  heard  the  moaning  of  the  wounded  and  the  dying. 
When  day  broke  she  saw  that  there  were  many  dead,  and 
the  infant  at  her  breast  was  dead  also.  It  had  succumbed 
to  hunger  and  to  exposure. 

The  men  came  and  buried  the  baby  for  her.  Officers 
came  and  deliberated  upon  her  plight.  Finally  she  and 
the  two  surviving  children  were  put  into  an  army  auto 
mobile  and  driven  to  the  nearest  large  town,  some  twenty 
miles  away.  Here  she  sought  out  the  American  consul, 
who  took  her  home  with  him  to  his  wife.  The  excellent 
couple  cared  for  her  and  made  all  arrangements  for  her 


360  THE  HYPHEN 

home  journey.  This,  however,  was  delayed  unexpectedly. 
Her  second  son  had  contracted  a  heavy  cold  during  the 
night  on  which  her  baby  had  died,  which  developed  into 
pneumonia.  He  died  within  a  few  days. 

She  returned  to  America  via  Germany,  Belgium  and 
Holland.  At  the  Dutch  frontier  she  met  an  American 
family  of  wealth  who  were  utterly  destitute  because  the 
letters  of  credit  which  they  carried  had  become  worthless, 
gold  being  demanded  everywhere  in  payment  for  every 
thing — board,  commodities  and  transportation.  She  had 
enough  money  left  to  loan  the  wife,  daughters  and  son 
of  a  Kansas  millionaire  the  price  of  steerage  transporta 
tion.  She  herself  came  steerage  also  because  no  more 
cabin  berths  were  available  and  she  was  loth  to  delay  her 
departure  for  home  by  another  day.  The  man  of  the 
party  whom  she  had  succored  seemed  to  have  gone  out 
of  his  mind.  All  he  seemed  able  to  think  about  was  the 
loss  of  his  pink  silk  pajamas. 

Such,  in  brief,  was  the  story  of  Mrs.  Vanbrugh. 

She  and  her  husband  and  their  sole  surviving  child,  a 
handsome  alert  lad  of  twelve,  called  at  the  Geddes  home 
the  Sunday  after  their  arrival  at  Three  Corners,  and  told 
their  story. 

"Did  you  see  anything  of  the  devastation  in  Belgium?" 
Mrs.  Geddes  asked. 

"Nothing  but  smiling  fields  and  acre  upon  acre  of  rich 
farm  lands." 

"You  may  be  sure,"  little  Tom  Vanbrugh  spoke  up,  "that 
the  Germans  didn't  send  us  along  the  route  that  covers 
Liege,  Brussels  and  Louvain.  You  may  be  sure  of  that." 

"Tom,"  said  his  mother,  "the  German  soldiers  with  whom 
we  traveled  were  very  kind  to  us." 

"Well,  why  wouldn't  they?"  said  little  Tom.  "We're 
Americans.  We're  neutrals.  We're  feeding  Belgium — or 
are  going  to.  Think  what  that  is  going  to  save  Germany. 
She  couldn't  let  the  entire  population  of  Belgium  starve. 
Now  could  she?" 

"I'm  afraid  she  could  and  she  would,  Tom,"  said  his 
father,  somberly. 

"Anyhow,"  said  the  son,  "they  didn't  come  and  offer 
us  bread  the  way  those  Russian  soldiers  did.  It  was  bum 
bread,  sour  and  heavy  and  it  had  a  perfectly  horrid  taste, 


YOUTH  361 

but  it  was  the  best  thing  they  had,  and  not  too  much  of, 
either,  and  they  gave  it  to  us." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Vanbrugh,  "when  I  think  of  the  kind 
ness  of  those  Russians,  who  took  thought  of  us  at  a  time 
when  every  moment  might  be  their  last,  the  tears  come  to 
my  eyes.  Indeed,  one  of  the  men  who  had  thrown  us  a 
blanket  at  sundown,  lay  dead  only  a  few  yards  away  from 
us  when  morning  came.  In  the  past,  before  this  horrible 
thing  descended  upon  the  world,  I  used  to  think  that  if 
I  lost  one  of  my  children  I  would  become  stark,  raving 
mad.  And  here  I  am,  having  lost  my  two  youngest  boys 
under  most  harrowing  conditions,  and  I  am  quite  calm, 
even  cheerful. 

"You  have  been  marvelously  brave,  my  dear,"  said  her 
husband. 

"It's  not  bravery  or  courage  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Vanbrugh, 
"it's  something  I  simply  cannot  give  a  name  to.  When 
ever  I  begin  to  sorrow  for  my  little  ones,  the  thought  of 
all  the  mothers  the  world  over,  who  are  sending  their 
sons  out  to  do  battle  for  what  they  think  right,  sweeps 
over  me.  Some  women,  I  have  read,  have  as  many  as 
five  or  six  sons  in  the  field.  Both  of  my  babies  died  in 
my  arms.  I  know  where  they  are  laid  away  in  their 
eternal  sleep.  Their  souls,  I  trust,  have  come  safe  to 
harbor.  They  were  innocent  children  when  they  died,  who 
had  given  pain  to  no  one,  who  had  given  nothing  but 
pleasure  to  their  father  and  myself.  But  how  about  those 
mothers  who  have  four  or  five  or  six  sons  in  the  field? 
Some  of  them  must  have  become  smirched  with  life. 
Their  souls  are  not  as  white  as  a  child's.  Does  bravery 
in  battle  wipe  away  other  stains?  Or  does  the  killing 
and  maiming  of  fellow-beings,  though  they  are  our  coun 
try's  foes,  place  a  new  stain  there?  I  lie  awake  nights 
asking  myself  these  questions,  asking  myself  how  those 
other  mothers  feel  who,  like  myself,  are  lying  awake  ask 
ing  themselves  the  same  questions,  who,  unlike  myself 
have  not  a  vicarious  but  a  direct  interest  in  their  solution. 
And  then — then  my  own  sorrow  is  as  nought." 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Vanbrugh,  gently  touch 
ing  his  wife's  hand.  She  began  to  sob,  harsh,  dry  sobs 
without  the  alleviation  of  tears.  Her  husband,  with  a 
look  of  apology  to  Mrs.  Geddes,  placed  his  arm  about 


362  THE  HYPHEN 

his  wife's  shoulder,  while  little  Tom  Vanbrugh  knelt  down 
at  his  mother's  knee. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "I  will  never  do  anything  bad  or 
wicked  like  those  men  you  speak  of.  I  promise,  mother. 
Nothing  that  will  ever  make  you  feel  it  would  have  been 
better  for  me  to  have  died  with  the  others." 

Mrs.  Vanbrugh  caught  her  son  tempestuously  to  her 
breast.  Her  sobs  stopped  and  tears  flowed  silently  down 
her  cheeks.  In  spite  of  her  heroic  protestations  she  was 
weeping  for  the  little  ones  whom  she  had  buried  in  far 
away  Russia. 

"Just  what  do  you  think  the  real  issue  is?"  Professor 
Geddes  inquired  of  Mr.  Vanbrugh.  "Is  it  Slav  against 
Teuton  ?" 

"I  do  not  think  it  is  anything  as  simple  as  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Vanbrugh. 

"One  civilization  pitted  against  another — do  you  call  that 
simple?"  Professor  Geddes  inquired,  smiling. 

"It  might  conceivably  be  simple  compared  to  other 
issues,"  Mr.  Vanbrugh  replied,  thoughtfully.  "Of  course, 
the  Germans  have  done  dreadful  things — I  beg  your 
pardon,"  he  concluded  lamely,  addressing  Grossvater 
Geddes. 

"Not  at  all !"  Grossvater  Geddes  waved  the  apology 
aside.  "I  shall  have  to  accustom  myself  to  hearing  people 
say  that.  But  I  know  it  is  not  true.  I  know  the  so- 
called  atrocities  are  a  myth."  He  produced  the  editorial 
from  the  "Times."  "Read  for  yourself,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Vanbrugh  had  read  the  editorial  on  the  day  it 
appeared.  He  commented  upon  the  fine  irony  of  events 
since  then. 

"But,"  said  Grossvater  Geddes,  "your  good  wife  says  she 
saw  no  devastated  fields  as  they  passed  through  Belgium. 
Well?" 

Mr.  Vanbrugh  bit  his  lip. 

"In  Amsterdam  she  met  some  American  refugees,"  he 
said,  finally,  with  evident  reluctance,  "and  they  told  grisly 
tales.  They  had  come  from  the  part  of  Belgium  occupied 
by  German  troops." 

Little  Tom  Vanbrugh  rose  abruptly  and  strode  from  the 
room,  whistling. 

"Tom  overheard  some  of  those  stories,"  said  his  father, 


YOUTH  363 

in  explanation,  "and  whenever  we  get  near  the  subject  he 
simply  leaves  the  room." 

"Surely,"  said  Grossvater  Geddes,  "you  do  not  believe 
everything  you  are  told  by  strangers." 

"Father,"  said  Professor  Geddes,  "those  people  were 
Americans." 

"And  because  Americans  say  it  is  true  must  it  be  be 
lieved?"  The  old  man  was  terribly  stirred.  "Yet  you 
ask  me  to  put  no  faith  in  my  own  race — to  believe  all  these 
slanders  against  it!  War  is  terrible,  always.  But  Ger 
mans,  I  trust,  are  as  humane  toward  the  conquered  as 
other  races." 

Professor  Geddes  and  Mr.  Vanbrugh  exchanged  looks. 

"Father,"  said  Professor  Geddes,  with  a  mildness  par 
ticularly  exasperating  to  his  already  exasperated  father, 
"you  speak  of  your  own  race.  Americans,  you  know,  have 
no  'own  race' " 

"Ah!"  his  father  broke  in  excitedly,  "the  Anglo-Ameri 
cans  consider  themselves  the  only  true  Americans.  I 
suppose,  Mr.  Vanbrugh,  you  also  believe  those  stories 
about  the  German  Uhlan  officers  eating  Belgian  babies?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Vanbrugh,  "I  do  not  believe  that." 

"Well,  in  time  you  will  believe  that,  too,"  said  Gross 
vater  Geddes,  and  walked  statelily  from  the  room. 

"Poor  father,"  said  Professor  Geddes.  "When  he 
realizes  what  things  the  Germans  are  doing  in  Belgium 
it  will  go  hard  with  him." 

Meanwhile  it  was  going  hard  with  Guido,  for  to  him 
by  this  time,  a  complete  realization  had  been  vouchsafed. 

"I  am  filled  with  shame,"  he  said  to  Professor  Geddes 
one  day,  "when  I  realize  that  the  race  I  sprang  from  is 
doing  these  shocking  things." 

"Get  rid  of  that  feeling,"  Professor  Geddes  said  per 
emptorily.  "In  giving  way  to  it  you  are  tacitly  admitting 
that  you  are  insufficiently  Americanized.  Germany  should 
be  no  more  to  you  than  any  other  alien  state." 

"She  isn't,"  said  Guido,  stoutly. 

"Then  why  should  she  have  the  power  to  fill  you  either 
with  shame  or  with  pride?"  Professor  Geddes  pursued. 
"No,  my  dear  boy,  Germany  is  nothing  and  never  was 
anything  to  Americans.  If  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a 


364  THE  HYPHEN 

close  bond  between  ourselves  and  any  European  country 
it  unites  us  not  with  Germany  but  with " 

"England,"  Guido  said,  quickly. 

"Exactly,"  said  Professor  Geddes.  "I  admit  the  claims 
of  race  there." 

"Do  you  not  mean  the  claims  of  spiritual  kinship  ?"  Guido 
inquired. 

"Exactly,"  Professor  Geddes  replied,  with  a  smile  so 
subtle  that  Guido  wondered  whether  he  had  not  purposely 
used  the  lax  expression. 

Nevertheless  the  sensation  of  shame  of  which  Guido 
had  complained,  persisted.  He  longed  to  unbosom  himself 
of  this  feeling  to  someone  who  would  understand,  some 
one  who,  like  Otto  or  Elschen,  were  in  the  identical  plight 
as  himself.  So  strong  was  this  feeling  that  he  left  for 
home  a  week  earlier  than  he  had  expected  to. 

Almost  the  first  person  whom  he  encountered  on  leav 
ing  the  railroad  station  was  Dr.  Koenig.  Guido  hailed 
him  and  received  a  scowl  in  return.  The  old  physician 
had  been  in  a  most  unenviable  frame  of  mind  since  part 
ing  with  Guido  at  Waldheim.  The  Great  Experiment,  the 
Political  Synthesis,  had  for  years  been  his  favorite  toy. 
What  were  mere  books  on  political  economy  and  religion 
compared  to  the  human  treatise,  the  speculation  in  blood 
and  flesh  which  was  being  fashioned  before  his  very  eyes? 
No  parent  ever  watched  his  offspring  more  eagerly  for 
signs  of  a  specific  talent  than  Dr.  Koenig,  throughout  a 
decade,  had  watched  Guido  for  symptoms  of  the  budding 
Synthesis.  That  he  could  not  posit,  or  even  remotely 
imagine,  in  what  way  the  Synthesis  was  to  come  about, 
or  in  what  way  the  symptoms  would  break  out,  had  made 
the  decade-long  vigil  the  more  fascinating.  He  had,  more 
over,  a  tremendous  faith  in  the  boy.  Then,  too,  he  had 
confided  the  theory  of  the  Political  Synthesis,  in  which 
by  this  time  he  felt  almost  a  possessive  sense,  to  his  old 
friend  Geddes.  To  discover  on  the  top  of  all  this  that  the 
boy  was  a  mere  backslider,  a  miserable  apostate  to  the 
doctrines  for  which  his  illustrious  ancestor,  the  first  Guido, 
had  bled  and  suffered,  was  a  disappointment  and  a  humilia 
tion  not  to  be  endured  with  patience. 

He  regarded  Guido  stonily  as  the  boy  stood  beside  him, 
smiling,  flushed,  cap  in  hand. 


YOUTH  365 

"Dr.  Koenig,  I  was  coming  to  see  you  this  very  evening. 
I  wanted  you  to  know — I've  come  around  entirely — it's 
heinous  what  Germany  had  done  and  is  doing!" 

Both  of  Dr.  Koenig's  strong  hands  shot  out  and  grasped 
Guido's.  He  ejaculated: 

"Ah,  so  blood  does  tell,  after  all." 

And  before  Guido  could  demand  an  explanation  of  this 
strange  remark,  Dr.  Koenig  said: 

"You  are  going  to  find  this  town  a  mighty  interesting 
place  to  live  in,  my  lad.  Come  and  see  me  some  evening 
this  week.  It's  too  warm  and  too  noisy  to  stand  and  talk 
in  the  street." 

Guido  discovered  within  the  next  ten  minutes  that  dull, 
quiet  Anasquoit  had  indeed  become  an  exciting  place  to 
live  in.  Bismarck  Street  was  a  thoroughfare  on  which 
no  ingrained  Anasquoitian  might  walk  a  block  without 
encountering  a  familiar  face.  The  first  friend  Guido 
stumbled  upon  as  he  walked  home  from  the  station  was 
Eddie  Erdman,  the  facetious  boy-milliner.  The  talk  of 
course  drifted  to  the  War. 

"I've  never  been  so  proud  of  being  German  in  all  my 
life  as  now,"  said  Eddi'e. 

"Proud !"  gasped  the  amazed  Guido. 

"Think  what  they've  accomplished !  And  so  quickly ! 
All  those  'impregnable'  cities.  Why,  Guido,  it  brings  back 
the  time  of  the  'alte  Frits'  Frederick  the  Great  would 
have  every  reason  to  be  proud  of  his  great-great-grandson, 
eh?  I  can  tell  you,  I  wish  I  had  been  born  on  the  other 
side.  I've  always  had  a  sneaking  thought  that  this  emigra 
tion  business  was  all  wrong.  German  is  German,  English 
is  English  and  French  is  French.  How  can  any  man 
really  and  truly  expatriate  himself?  It's  signing  away 
the  birthright  of  unborn  generations  which  no  man  has  a 
right  to  do.  I  tell  you  what.  After  the  war  is  over,  I'm 
going  back  to  Germany.  S'long,  Guido.  Come  and  see 
me  some  evening  and  we'll  toast  the  greatest  Hohenzollern 
of  all." 

Guido  stared  after  the  vanishing  figure  of  his  ample 
friend  in  blank  amazement.  He  was  dumbfounded.  And 
yet  he,  too,  within  the  year,  had  thought  William  the 
greatest  of  the  Hohenzollerns ! 


366  THE  HYPHEN 

At  the  next  corner  he  ran  into  Henry  Foerster,  the 
silent  boy. 

"Well,  how  about  the  War,  Henry?"  Guido  inquired. 

"Great,"  Henry  replied.     "Magnificent,  unheard  of." 

"Surely,  Henry,  you're  not  serious,"  said  Guido.  "I 
think  the  War,  and  Germany's  part  in  it,  damnable." 

"I  think  Germany  is  doing  the  most  wonderful  thing 
that  has  ever  been  done  in  all  history."  This,  for  Henry, 
was  downright  eloquence. 

"Do  you  call  it  wonderful  to  violate  solemn  treaties 
and  invade  neutral  countries?" 

"But  Belgium  was  not  a  neutral  country.  The  Belgians 
are  a  bad  lot  anyway,  so  what's  the  use  of  making  such  a 
fuss  over  them." 

Guido  stared. 

"It's  all  England's  doing  anyhow,"  said  the  Laconian, 
who  was  laconic  no  more.  "England's  so  frantically  jealous 
of  Germany.  The  British  have  hogged  everything  in  sight 
so  long  and  now  they  are  afraid  of  Germany.  So  they 
plotted  to  dismember  her." 

Still  Guido  merely  stared. 

"A  cousin  of  mine,"  Henry  continued,  "who  was  an 
officer  in  the  German  army  until  two  years  ago,  explained 
the  whole  thing  to  me.  You  come  around  some  evening 
and  I'll  ask  my  cousin  around,  too,  so  he  can  explain  it  to 
you  the  way  he  did  to  me." 

"Thanks  awfully,"  said  Guido,  who  at  last  had  found 
his  tongue,  "but  I  prefer  to  do  my  own  thinking." 

"But  without  a  German's  explanation  of  the  situation 
you  are  bound  to  think  wrong,"  Henry  replied,  calmly. 

Guido  ignored  this. 

"What  did  you  mean  by  saying  Belgium  hadn't  been 
neutral?"  he  asked. 

"If  Belgium  had  been  truly  neutral  she  would  not  have 
refused  to  allow  the  Germans  to  march  through,"  Henry 
replied.  "If  she  had  been  neutral  she  would  not  have 
cared  which  of  the  Powers  were  successful,  would  she? 
She  wouldn't  have  objected  to  Germany's  stealing  a  march 
on  the  others.  By  objecting,  she  showed  her  animosity. 
So  much  the  worse  for  her.  Germany  is  going  to  be  suc 
cessful  anyway.  My  cousin  told  me  all  about  it.  The 
German  army  is  the  greatest  and  the  finest  and  the  best 


YOUTH  367 

disciplined  fighting  machine  which  the  world  has  ever 
seen." 

"Everybody  knows  that,"  said  Guido. 

"Well,"  Henry  continued,  "if  everybody  knows  it  why 
does  anybody  have  the  audacity  to  try  and  stop  Germany, 
or  attempt  to  fight  her,  or  to  keep  her  down?  Germany 
is  going  to  beat  all  the  others  to  a  frazzle.  Just  you  wait 
and  see." 

Guido  was  appalled.  He  was  paralyzed  by  the  shock 
of  seeing  unfolded  before  his  eyes,  without  any  appear 
ance  of  shame,  a  psychology  so  twisted  and  perverted  and 
unsound  as  this. 

"The  stupidity  of  the  other  powers  is  incredible,"  Henry 
continued.  "If  they  had  any  sense  at  all  they  would  ask 
for  peace  right  now  and  accept  Germany's  terms." 

"But  when  a  country  is  invaded  like  Belgium,  and  like 
France,  its  men  will  fight,  fight,  fight  to  the  last  man  in 
order  to  throw  the  invaders  out." 

"Germany  should  worry,"  Henry  replied,  calmly.  "If 
England,  France  and  Belgium  want  to  commit  suicide, 
it's  their  affair,  not  Germany's.  I  should  not  have  said 
England.  She  will  let  other  people  do  her  fighting  for 
her,  as  she  has  done  in  all  previous  wars.  Those  that 
are  stupid  enough,  that  is.  India,  of  course,  will  rebel 
against  the  oppressive  rule  of  the  English  invader. 
Australia  will  probably  declare  for  independence.  Shouldn't 
wonder  if  Canada  made  a  move  in  the  same  direction. 
Egypt  will  rise.  The  Boer  Republic  has  an  old  score 
still  to  settle.  Oh,  you  are  going  to  see  things  happen, 
my  boy.  Germany's  heroic  move  will  liberate  all  the 
peoples  who  have  suffered  from  British  misrule  so  long." 

"And  do  you  really  wish  that  all  these  things  should 
come  to  pass?"  Guido  inquired. 

"Why  not?     Serve  England  good  and  right." 

"But  why  do  you  hate  England  so?" 

"Oh,  the  Revolution  and  all  that." 

"But  we  were  successful  in  the  Revolution,  so  why  should 
we  nourish  a  grudge  against  England  on  that  account? 
Besides,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  the  best  men  in 
England  were  opposed  to  the  Stamp  Act.  I  speak  of  Pitt, 
of  Burke,  of  Wilkes,  of  Fox  and  others." 

"Well,  all  the  same  England  deserves  to  get  it  in  the 


368  THE  HYPHEN 

neck,  and,  don't  worry!  Germany  will  see  to  it  that  Eng 
land  gets  all  that  is  coming  to  her.  For  in  war  might 
makes  right.  If  the  Americans  had  not  been  successful 
in  '76,  the  Revolution  and  not  the  Civil  War  would  have 
gone  down  in  history  as  the  Great  Rebellion." 

"I  think,"  said  Guido,  "if  you  could  forget  your  ante 
cedents  for  a  while,  if  you  could  bring  yourself  to  think 
as  an  American  and  not  as  a  German-American,  you  would 
admit  that  Germany  is  all  wrong." 

"Oh,  if  it  were  a  case  of  Germany  against  the  United 
States  that,  of  course,  would  be  an  entirely  different 
matter,"  said  Henry.  "Naturally  I  would  then  side  with 
the  U.  S.  A." 

"Whether  we  were  right  or  wrong?"  Guido  asked,  with 
growing  wonder. 

"One  sides  with  one's  own  as  a  matter  of  course,"  replied 
Henry.  "But  when  the  quarrel  is  between  England  and 
Germany,  naturally  I  side  with  Germany."  And  he  began 
to  enumerate  the  undesirable  traits  of  the  British.  The 
English  were  stiff,  "poky,"  insincere,  inefficient,  greedy, 
rude,  conceited  and  opinionated.  Guido  thought  of  Cecil 
and  smiled.  He  had  known  Henry  almost  all  his  life  and 
Cecil  a  few  months  only;  Henry  was  of  the  same  race 
as  himself,  and  Cecil  was  of  a  different  race.  Yet  he 
felt  a  stronger  sense  of  kinship  for  Cecil  than  he  felt  for 
Henry  or  for  Eddie. 

Guido  parted  from  Henry  feeling  sick  at  heart.  He  felt 
an  inordinate  yearning  to  see  Otto.  He  longed  to  see 
someone  who  would  understand  his  emotions — someone 
who  shared  the  detestable  feeling  of  shame  which  seemed 
to  be  gnawing  itself  into  his  very  heart.  To  Guide's 
initial  and  primary  sense  of  shame  was  now  added  the 
secondary  shame  of  seeing  his  former  schoolmates  ap 
plauding  a  cause  which  to  him  seemed  unspeakably  base. 
In  Otto,  who  was  honesty  personified,  he  felt  certain  he 
would  find  the  sympathy  he  craved.  Otto  would  share 
his  sense  of  shame.  He  longed  to  hear  Oto  enlarge  upon 
the  situation  in  the  terse  and  vigorous  German,  which  he 
spoke  so  much  more  easily  than  English.  To  hear  Germany 
denounced  in  racy,  idiomatic  German — nothing  less  would 
quench  the  fires  of  indignation  which  Henry  and  Eddie 
had  fed  anew. 


YOUTH  369 

It  never  occurred  to  Guido  that  Otto  might  have  com 
mitted  himself  to  the  orthodox  German  cause. 

"Why,"  thought  Guido,  "if  I  hadn't  been  anti-German 
before,  I'd  have  turned  pro-Ally  after  hearing  those  two 
mouth  it." 

He  turned  down  Juniper  Street,  on  which  the  Baum- 
gartens  now  lived  in  an  unpretentious  house,  and  five  min 
utes  later  was  closeted  with  Otto. 

"I'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you,  Otto,"  Guido  began.  "I've 
missed  our  talks.  And  so  much  has  happened." 

"The  War?  Well,  it's  not  going  to  last  long,"  Otto  re 
joined,  cheerfully.  "The  Germans  are  sweeping  every 
thing  before  them.  It  will  all  be  over  soon,  thanks  to 
German  military  genius." 

Guido's  blood  congealed.  Otto's  defection  was  to  him 
a  disaster  of  the  first  magnitude. 

"Surely,"  he  stammered,  "you  are  not  pro-German,  too ! 
Not  you,  Otto,  nicht  Du!" 

"Ja,  was  soil  ich  denn  sonst  sein,"  Otto  retorted.  "You 
didn't  expect  to  find  me  pro-British,  did  you?" 

"Don't  let's  drag  England  in,"  Guido  said,  quickly. 
Otto,  so  honest,  so  upright  could  surely  not  be  an  apologist 
for  Germany's  crimes.  "England  has  nothing  to  do  with 
it  at  all." 

"England  has  everything  to  do  with  it,"  Otto  cried,  and 
repeated  the  charge  which  Henry  had  already  made. 
"England  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  plot  to  dismember 
Germany." 

"But  how  do  you  know  such  a  plot  exists?"  Guido  de 
manded. 

"Why,  every  German  knows  it,"  Otto  retorted.  "That's 
why  Germany  went  to  war.  That's  why  Germany  will 
succeed,  because  she  is  right,  and  fortunately  had  the  fore 
sight  to  prepare  for  this  day !" 

"But  all  this  is  only  hearsay  and  supposition,"  said 
Guido. 

"Beg  pardon,  Guido.  It  is  a  matter  of  common  knowl 
edge  that  England,  Russia  and  France  formed  a  secret 
alliance." 

"For  defensive  purposes  only — like  England's  treaty 
with  Japan,"  Guido  replied,  quickly. 

"If  you  are  simple  enough  to  believe  that  I  am  sorry  for 


370  THE  HYPHEN 

you,"  Otto  said.  "England's  scheme  was  to  trump  up  some 
sort  of  a  case  against  Germany  and  then  get  France  and 
Russia  to  help  her  dismember  Germany.  The  British 
Empire  was  built  up  through  systematic  land-grabbing 
Gibraltar " 

"Schleswig-Holstein,"  Guido  countered.  "I'll  wager 
Prussia  did  quite  as  much  land-grabbing,  or  more,  as  Great 
Britain." 

"It  was  right  that  Schleswig-Holstein  should  be  turned 
over  to  Germany,"  said  Otto,  doggedly.  "We  were  taught 
in  school " 

Again  Guido  interrupted  his  friend. 

"Otto,"  he  said,  with  great  earnestness,  "I  have  learned 
more  real  German  history  this  summer  from  men  who  lived 
it  than  we  were  ever  taught  in  school.  There's  the  case 
of  Alsace-Lorraine " 

"Alsace-Lorraine  is  German  in  language,  in  spirit,  in 
nationality,  and  desires  to  remain  German,"  said  Otto. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  Guido  cried.  "I  read  an  article 
this  summer  written  by  a  German  and  published  in  a 
German  magazine  in  which  the  writer  deplores  the  fact  that 
after  forty  years  under  German  rule  the  inhabitants  of 
Alsace-Lorraine  remain  as  French  in  spirit  as  they  were 
in  1870." 

"If  any  German  wrote  that,  he  lied,"  said  Otto,  with 
finality. 

Guido  became  intensely  agitated. 

"One  cannot  argue  with  you,"  he  cried,  angrily.  "The 
moment  an  argument  goes  against  you,  you  cry  'A  lie !' " 

"Well,"  said  Otto,  tranquilly,  "it  is  a  lie.  Every  German 
knows  that  Alsace-Lorraine  is  German  in  spirit.  Besides, 
it  was  deutsches  Reichland  for  centuries.  France  stole  it 
from  Germany  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago." 

Guido  gritted  his  teeth.  He  was  getting  his  first  taste 
of  the  unflattering  and  offensive  language  in  which  it  was 
the  habit  of  the  German  sympathizers  to  cry  down  every 
remark  inimical  to  the  Fatherland. 

"There  is  such  a  thing  as  a  statute  of  limitations,"  he 
said.  "The  laws  of  every  country  recognize  that  after  a 
certain  period  a  legal  right  to  any  parcel  of  land  is  estab 
lished  by  occupation  unless  claim  is  made  and  upheld  in 


YOUTH  371 

the  meantime  by  the  previous  owner.  Here  in  Jersey,  I 
believe,  the  statute  allows  twenty  years." 

"Well,"  said  Otto,  "twice  twenty  is  forty.  If  twenty 
years  applies  to  an  individual,  I  imagine  forty  years  is 
good  enough  for  a  country  to  establish  a  legal  right  to 
occupied  land,  according  to  your  own  logic.  Therefore 
Germany  is  entitled  to  Alsace-Lorraine." 

Until  this  moment,  in  spite  of  his  abusive  language  and 
insolent  tone,  Otto  had  shown  a  tendency  to  employ  the 
white  magic  of  honorable  argument,  not  the  black  magic 
of  sophistry.  Guido's  heart  sank  within  him. 

"Otto,"  he  said,  in  a  sort  of  frenzy  of  earnestness,  "you 
cannot,  you  simply  cannot  believe  that  the  violation  of 
Belgium  is  right." 

"Of  course  the  violation  of  Belgium  is  not  right,"  Otto 
said,  adding  significantly,  "if  it  was  a  violation.  The 
Germans  seem  to  be  very  certain  that  French  officers  were 
in  Belgium  before  war  was  declared.  There  must  have 
been  some  definite  understanding — perhaps  the  Belgians 
had  given  France  permission  to  march  through  her  terri 
tory.  That  being  so  you  will  admit  that  Germany  was 
right  to  take  time  by  the  forelock  and  get  ahead  of 
France." 

"But  Germany  merely  supposes  all  these  awful  things," 
Guido  objected.  "She  can  prove  nothing." 

"Germany  believes  these  things  to  be  true,  therefore  was 
justified  in  doing  what  she  did,"  said  Otto,  dogmatically. 

"But  believing  a  man  to  be  a  robber  doesn't  make  him 
a  robber." 

"No,  but  it  gives  me  the  right  to  arm  myself  against 
him." 

"And  to  shoot  him  at  sight  ?" 

"Certainly,"  Otto  replied,  calmly,  "if  I  am  morally  cer 
tain  of  my  grounds." 

And  this  from  the  boy  who  had  thrown  up  a  job  which 
he  desperately  needed  because  it  was  against  his  principles 
to  type  profanities! 

Guido  took  up  his  hat  and  went  to  the  door. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  said  Otto. 

"I  am,"  said  Guido,  "I  am  more  ashamed  of  my  German 
blood  than  I  can  say." 

"Shame  on  you   for  that!"  Otto  cried.     "Every  other 


372  THE  HYPHEN 

German  is  proud  of  his  blood !  Think  what  they've  accom 
plished!  Why,  Guido,  it's  glorious,  glorious!  Oh,  shame 
on  you,  shame  on  you  not  to  stand  by  your  own  race." 

Guido  quivered  with  anger  in  every  nerve. 

"I  am  an  American,  not  a  German,  though  my  parents 
were  German-born,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"Americans  are  a  mixed  race,"  said  Otto,  disdainfully. 
"There  is  no  harm  in  being  proud  of  one's  pure  racial 
strain,  if  one  happens  to  have  it.  And  German  blood  is 
the  best  in  the  world." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Guido  abruptly. 

A  species  of  spiritual  nausea  invaded  him.  His  faith 
in  human  nature  had  been  struck  at.  The  mantle  of 
righteousness  which  Guido  had  fancied  as  accruing  uncon 
ditionally  to  Otto,  had  been  sullied  and  rent.  Why,  he 
asked  himself  bitterly,  should  race  prejudice  possess  this 
sinister  power  to  warp  men's  sense  of  right  and  wrong,  to 
vitiate  their  conscience  and  undermine  their  honesty? 

Suddenly  a  terrifying  thought  occurred  to  him,  leaving 
him  panic-stricken  and  shaken. 

What  if  his  mother  were  pro-German,  too? 

"It's  not  possible,"  he  said,  speaking  a  loud  in  his  agita 
tion,  "it  is  simply  not  possible." 

But  in  spite  of  this  passionate  denial,  fear  held  him  by 
the  hand,  and  he  had  a  palpitating  sense  of  apprehension 
as  he  mounted  the  stoop  to  his  house. 

Frau  Ursula  had  seen  him  from  the  sitting-room  window, 
and  had  run  to  the  door  and  had  it  open  and  her  boy  in 
her  arms  before  Guido  had  time  to  touch  the  door-bell. 
In  the  joy  of  the  meeting  Guido  for  the  moment  forgot 
the  fear  which  had  tortured  him  so  cruelly. 

"Mutterchen!"  he  held  her  at  arm's  length.  "You  are 
more  beautiful  than  I  have  ever  seen  you!  Mutterchen! 
Dear,  silly  little  Mutterchen,  you  are  blushing  at  your  boy's 
compliment  like  a  young  girl!"  And  he  fell  to  hugging 
her  anew,  wondering  at  the  quickened  brightness  of  her 
eyes,  at  the  indescribable  sweetness  that  seemed  to  hover 
about  her  like  an  impalpable  cloud,  at  the  tender  smile  that 
seemed  to  have  become  part  and  parcel  of  the  corners  of  her 
mouth. 

"Mother,  you  are  as  lovely  as  a  youn'g  girl  in  love," 
he  assured  her.  She  pretended  to  be  indignant  with  him, 


YOUTH  373 

but  she  did  not  succeed  very  well.  Her  happiness  wore 
too  bright  a  halo.  It  would  not  be  quenched. 

"Really,  Guido,"  she  said,  smiling  and  dimpling,  "this 
language  to  your  mother  is  unseemly.  Besides,  what  do 
you  know  about  a  young  girl  in  love?" 

"I've  read  about  them.  As  to  my  language,  it's  the 
penalty  you  pay  for  being  so  sweet  and  so  young  and  so 
lovely.  Mother,  I've  had  a  wonderful  summer."  And  he 
fell  to  telling  her  trivialities  of  which  persons  who  are  near 
and  dear  to  each  other  speak  after  a  long  separation,  as 
if  feeling  their  way  back  to  the  old  familiar  intimacy. 

Finally  he  went  to  his  room  without  having  asked  her 
where  she  stood  on  the  War. 


CHAPTER  VI 

GUIDO'S  instinct  had  prompted  him  aright  when  he 
said  to  Frau  Ursula,  "You  are  as  lovely  as  a  young 
girl  in  love."  To  make  the  statement  complete  he  should 
have  added:  "and  whose  love  is  reciprocated." 

Frau  Ursula,  for  the  first  time  left  alone  with  her  hus 
band  after  Guide's  departure  for  "Waldheim"  had  set  her 
self  the  simple  task  of  making  the  household,  including 
herself,  revolve  solely  about  Hauser,  and  the  secondary 
task,  infinitely  more  difficult  of  achievement,  of  making  him 
realize  that  the  household  traveled  in  an  orbit  of  which 
he  himself  was  the  unchallenged  center. 

She  was  a  woman  both  proud  and  modest.  The  two 
qualities  were  inseparable  in  her,  and  she  sometimes  made 
her  modesty  the  excuse  for  her  pride.  If  she  had  not 
felt  confident,  with  a  confidence  so  complete  that  she  did 
not  even  trouble  to  voice  it,  that  she  still  possessed  the 
undivided  love  of  her  husband,  she  could  not  have  set  out 
deliberately  to  woo  him. 

She  laid  out  her  campaign  with  the  utmost  care.  She 
dressed  every  evening  for  dinner  as  carefully  as  if  she 
were  going  to  the  theater  or  a  reception,  and  she  had  an 
unusually  large  number  of  new  dresses  made — dresses  of 
foulard,  of  crepe  de  chine,  of  voile,  of  white  filmy  stuffs 
classed  as  "novelties."  She  had  Hauser's  favorite  dishes 
served;  tried  out  fanciful  new  desserts,  to  which  he  was 
partial,  and  had  the  table  laid  with  the  best  china  and 
silver,  decorating  it  with  flowers  from  their  own  garden. 
She  herself  was  gracious,  witty,  bright.  Her  expectant 
mood,  and  her  sincere  effort  to  please,  threw  her  white 
and  golden  loveliness  into  bold  relief. 

Hauser  basked  gratefully,  as  a  tired,  jaded  man  of  affairs 
will,  in  the  smiles  and  laughter  and  wit  which  his  wife 
shed  about  him.  He  did  not  at  first  attribute  any  especial 
cause  or  reason  to  them.  At  breakfast  she  was  more  sub 
dued,  subservient,  gentler  than  at  dinner,  for  she  knew  his 

374 


YOUTH  375 

dislike  to  sustained  conversation  in  the  morning.  But  she 
was  never  absent  from  the  breakfast  table  these  days,  and 
she  always  went  to  the  door  with  him,  and  bade  him  adieu 
at  the  very  threshold. 

One  morning,  happening  to  glance  back  from  the  corner, 
he  saw  her  still  standing  there.  She  smiled,  a  little  sadly, 
as  he  lifted  his  hat  to  her.  Momentum  of  mind  as  well 
as  physical  momentum  carried  him  several  steps  further. 
Then  he  turned  and  came  back. 

He  had  understood  at  last. 

His  wife  was  still  standing  on  the  steps,  as  if  expecting 
his  return.  The  smile  faded  from  her  face,  the  color  from 
her  cheeks  as  she  saw  him  turn. 

"Ursula,"  he  said,  when  he  stood  beside  her,  "I  want  to 
speak  to  you.  Let  us  go  into  the  house." 

Indoors,  alone  with  her,  in  a  privacy  which  for  the 
first  time  in  years  seemed  to  him  exciting  and  romantic, 
he  said: 

"If  you  mean  nothing  by  all  this,  by  everything  you  have 
been  doing  and  saying  and  looking  since  you  and  I  are 
alone,  then  say  so  frankly — and  stop  it.  For  God's  sake, 
then  stop  it!  But  if  you  do  mean  that — well — that  mutual 
happiness  is  still  within  our  reach,  then  be  equally  frank 
with  me." 

"Mutual  happiness !"  she  said.  "Erich,  I've  dreamed 
of  it." 

He  caught  her  roughly  by  the  wrist. 

"Ursula,  there's  no  nonsense  in  this  attitude  of  yours — 
nothing  about  making  amends,  or  paying  me  for  being 
decent — I  trust  I  have  been  half- ways  decent  to  the  boy — 
or  any  tommyrot  like  that,  is  there?" 

"No,"  she  said,  with  downcast  eyes.     "No." 

"Does  that  mean  that  you  really  care  for  me?  Has  the 
miracle  happened?  Ursula,  has  it?" 

"Can  you  not  tell  me  first  that  you  still  care  for  me?" 
she  asked,  her  voice  cool  and  repressed. 

"You  know  I  do,"  he  said,  with  sudden  passion.  "You 
know  that  you  are  the  only  woman  in  the  world  for  me. 
Love  seizes  some  men  like  that.  They  lose  all  sense  of 
other  women,  all  feeling  for  them,  all  desire  for  them.  It's 
true.  I  swear  it's  true.  Ursula,  I  love  you  more  than 
words  can  say.  Do  you  care  for  me  a  little?  Love  me?" 


376  THE  HYPHEN 

"Yes,"  she  said,  her  voice  vibrant  with  the  love  which 
she  had  suppressed  so  long.  "I  do  love  you,  I  do,  indeed. 
Like  yourself,  I  have  waited  for  this  moment  for  years. 
Unlike  yourself,  I  have  worked  to  bring  it  about." 

"Ursula!"  he  cried,  his  face  flushing  with  joy. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  with  a  radiant,  smile.  "I  am  not  ashamed 
to  admit  that  I  planned  and  schemed — that  I  was  glad  to 
have  Guido  away  for  the  summer " 

"Ursula!"  She  never  forgot  the  jubilation  with  which 
he  greeted  that  remark.  It  was  the  most  sincere  earnest 
of  her  love  which  she  could  have  given  him.  If  Guide's 
absence  had  been  welcome  to  her  because  it  facilitated  a 
reconciliation  between  herself  and  her  husband,  she  must 
love  him,  indeed.  Thus  argued  Hauser. 

Her  face  had  become  very  pink,  her  voice  husky.  She 
flung  herself  impulsively  into  his  arms,  and  her  face  on 
his  shoulder  and  clung  to  him  convulsively.  Finally  she 
lifted  her  face  and  her  lips  to  his. 

"Ursula — we  have  waited  a  long  time  for  a  perfect  un 
derstanding — there  has  been  one  false  dawn.  There  must 
not  be  another.  Are  you  quite,  quite  sure  that  you  will 
not  regret " 

"Quite,  quite  sure,"  she  replied. 

"Then,  when  shall  we  start  on  our  honeymoon?  We'll 
have  to  get  acquainted  again  all  over,  won't  we?  Can  you 
be  ready  in  say  twenty-four  hours?" 

"I  can  be  ready  in  six  hours,"  she  replied. 

"Then,"  said  Hauser,  "we'll  start  to-night.  The  store 
will  have  to  run  itself  for  a  fortnight.  I'll  be  home  around 
two  o'clock.  We  can  start  about  four  and  motor  down  to 
— to  wherever  you  say." 

He  took  her  soft,  flushed  face  between  his  trembling 
hands  and  kissed  her  twice,  thrice  on  tremulous,  half-open 
lips. 

That  had  been  the  beginning  of  the  happiest  summer 
Frau  Ursula  had  ever  known.  She  was  amazed  to  find 
how  well-informed  and  how  well-read  her  husband  was. 
He  had  read  authors  of  whose  works  she  had  merely  read 
reviews.  He  had  from  time  to  time  bought  expensive  sets 
of  books  for  the  library.  She  had,  a  little  maliciously — 
since  there  were  times  when  she  assuaged  the  pain  which 
his  seeming  diffidence  caused  her,  and  underpropped  her 


YOUTH  377 

stoical  exterior  as  well,  by  painting  him  to  herself  as  simply 
ridiculous — represented  him  as  purchasing  those  books  as 
furniture  necessary  to  a  millionaire's  establishment,  just 
as  he  purchased  davenport  and  library  table  and  elastic 
book-cases.  In  more  charitable  moments  she  had  attributed 
the  purchase  of  those  books  to  compassion  on  his  part  for 
itinerant  book  agents.  At  best  she  had  never  supposed  that 
he  really  read  Fiske  and  Bergson  and  Haeckel.  She  was 
surprised,  therefore,  in  the  two  weeks  during  which  they 
were  thrown  on  each  other's  resources  and  during  which 
he  talked  much,  that  he  had  read  many,  if  not  all  of  the 
books  which  his  well-stocked  library  contained. 

If  there  was  one  flaw  in  her  happiness  it  was  the  thought 
of  Guido.  Hauser  saw  her  receive  letters  from  the  boy 
and  answer  them.  Yet  never  throughout  the  entire  sum 
mer  did  he  refer  to  Guido  a  single  time.  When  she  spoke 
of  Guido,  as  she  sometimes  did,  Hauser  listened  with  an 
air  of  indulgent  kindness.  Their  altered  relations  barred 
the  suspicion  that  he  was  assuming  this  attitude  of  silence 
with  the  express  intention  of  wounding  her.  There  was 
only  one  other  tenable  supposition:  he  felt,  in  all  proba 
bility,  utter  indifference  for  Guido — such  a  complete, 
thorough-going  indifference  that,  when  Guido  was  absent, 
Guido  was  for  him  in  total  eclipse. 

Frau  Ursula  had  learned  wisdom  at  the  cost  of  happi 
ness.  She  prized  her  new-found  happiness  too  highly  to 
allow  this  shadow,  deep  and  grave  as  it  was,  which  lay 
athwart  her  path,  to  trouble  her.  She  knew  that  she  was 
making  Hauser  superlatively  happy;  he  was  bestowing 
upon  her  the  same  felicitude.  Guide's  civility  to  Hauser, 
Hauser's  to  Guido,  had  left  nothing  to  be  desired  in  the 
past.  There  was  no  reason  to  fear  that  it  would  suffer 
a  breach  in  the  future. 

All  during  that  summer  he  had  dwelt,  gently  meditative, 
on  the  curious  versatility  of  the  human  heart  in  thus  pas 
sionately  loving  two  creatures  so  inimical  to  each  other. 

She  had  not  realized  that  happiness  had  wrought  so 
extraordinary  a  change  in  her  appearance.  Guido,  having 
washed  and  freshened  up,  returned  to  her  and  commented 
upon  it  anew.  And  now  she  noticed  that  there  was  a 
nervousness  in  his  manner  which  it  had  lacked  before. 


378  THE  HYPHEN 

Suddenly,  without  warning,  he  shot  the  all-important  ques 
tion  at  her. 

"Mutterchen,  now  do  you  feel  about  the  War?  Pro- 
German  ?" 

Frau  Ursula  dropped  the  stocking  she  was  darning  into 
her  lap  and  regarded  Guido  with  mild  amusement. 

"My  son,"  she  said,  gently,  "how  would  you  feel  if  anyone 
asked  you  that  question  ?" 

"I  should  resent  it,"  said  Guido. 

"And  so  do  I,"  quoth  Frau  Ursula. 

Guido  gasped,  laughed  and  jubilated. 

But  his  mother  had  suddenly  fallen  silent.  She  was  very 
grave  as  she  bade  him  listen  attentively  to  what  she  was 
about  to  say.  Hauser,  it  seems,  was  taking  the  typical 
German  view.  Why  he  should  do  so  Frau  Ursula  did  not 
attempt  to  explain  or  to  discover.  It  was,  to  her,  inex 
plicable.  But,  as  it  was,  it  was.  She  implored  Guido  to 
observe  discretion  and  tact  and  to  refrain  from  willfully 
angering  his  father.  Guido,  in  the  immensity  of  his  relief 
at  finding  his  mother  orthodox,  was  entirely  willing  to 
cheerfully  gloss  over  his  father's  heterodoxy.  After  all, 
what  did  his  father  signify?  It  was  his  mother  who 
mattered. 

For  a  long  time  it  seemed  that  the  gods  were  with  Frau 
Ursula.  Guido  was  much  engrossed  with  the  opening  of 
the  college,  his  matriculation,  the  return  of  Professor 
Geddes  and  his  family,  the  comparing  of  Janet  and  Elschen, 
point  for  point,  and  with  getting  acquainted  with  the 
young  men  in  his  class.  He  was  much  engrossed  also,  in 
quarreling  about  the  War  with  Otto,  who,  having  accepted 
Guide's  substantial  loan,  had  embarked  on  the  four-years' 
course  at  the  "Tech"  along  with  Guido  and  Stanley. 

For  Otto  had  plunged  headlong  into  the  frenzied  orgy  of 
hatred  for  all  things  not  German,  and  more  particularly 
for  all  things  British,  which  was  the  sinister  flower  of  the 
early  days  of  the  War.  There  was  neither  rhyme  nor 
reason  to  this  hatred.  It  had  sprung,  no  one  could  tell 
from  what  polluted  soil. 

"A  forced  bloom  from  some  hot-bed  in  hell,"  said  Guido 
to  Professor  Geddes  in  a  spasm  of  reactionary  anger  after 
one  of  Otto's  intemperate  discourses. 


YOUTH  379 

Professor  Geddes  removed  his  glasses  and  bent  them 
gently  against  his  knuckles. 

"An  excellent  phrase,"  he  said,  "but,  although  I  am 
not  your  professor  in  English,  I  would  like  to  point  out  to 
you  that  profanity,  semi-occasionally  injected  into  one's 
talk,  produces  the  same  effect  upon  the  sensory  nerves  as 
the  sharp,  explosive  sound  of  fire-works;  but  this  gal 
vanizing  effect  fails,  becoming  tawdry  and  vulgar,  when 
profanity  changes  from  the  exceptional  to  the  customary." 

Having  delivered  himself  of  which  impromptu  lecture, 
the  Professor  calmly  restored  his  glasses  to  his  nose. 

Guido  smiled. 

"Really,  sir,"  he  said,  "it's  enough  to  try  the  patience 
of  Job  to  hear  Otto  go  on.  Otto,  now  Otto  is  really  a 
fine  character." 

"A  splendid  boy,  none  finer,"  the  Professor  generously 
interpolated. 

"But  here  he  has  turned  his  notions  of  right  and  wrong 
topsy-turvy " 

"Has  he  really?"  Professor  Geddes  interrupted  Guido. 
"I  think  you  are  misjudging  the  German- American,  and — 
for  that  matter — the  German  attitude.  I  think  the  country 
at  large,  the  entire  world,  is  misjudging  it.  I  am  not  speak 
ing  of  the  powers  that  be,  of  the  Hohenzollerns  and  their 
minions.  I'm  speaking  of  the  average  German  man  and 
woman." 

"But,  sir,  they  are  very,  very  unfair — so  blindly  partisan 
where  they  themselves  are  concerned,  so  blindly  unjust  to 
their  foe." 

"True.  But  I  would  like  you  to  answer  me  one  question 
before  we  continue,  Guido.  Why  are  we  justified  in 
censuring  the  faults  of  others  and  commenting  upon  them  ?" 

"Because  they  deserve  to  be  criticised,  of  course,"  Guido 
replied,  with  some  warmth. 

"Well,  I  may  be  wrong,  of  course,"  said  Professor 
Geddes,  "but  I  take  a  slightly  different  view.  I  think  the 
only  excuse  we  have  for  censuring  the  faults  of  others  is 
the  expectation  that,  in  clearly  apprehending  these  faults, 
we  may  hope  to  avoid  falling  into  similar  bad  habits." 

Guido  was  considerably  abashed  by  this  reproof. 

"Of  course,  sir,"  he  assented,  weakly. 


38o  THE  HYPHEN 

"And  now,"  said  the  Professor,  tell  me  in  what  way 
Otto  and  your  other  German  friends  have  reversed  their 
sense  of  right  and  wrong." 

"Well,  they  seem  just  plain  drunk  with  the  military  suc 
cess  of  the  Germans,"  said  Guido. 

"True.  If  their  cause  were  just,  as  you  and  I  know 
it  to  be  unjust,  they  would  be  justified  in  being  thus  in 
ebriated.  They,  however,  believe  their  cause  to  be  a  just 
one." 

"How  can  they?"  Guido  cried,  excitedly.  "Germany's 
guilt  is  plain  as  way  to  parish  church,  isn't  it?  Every 
argument  which  tells  against  them  they  brush  aside  as 
'English  lies.'  Every  kind  deed  done  by  America  they 
ascribe  to  'American  hypocrisy'  or  'American  subserviency 
to  Britain.'  It's  disgusting.  I  wish  the  thing  had  actually 
happened  which  they  pretend  would  have  happened  if 
Germany  had  not  violated  Belgium  and  invaded  France. 
I  mean,  that  France  and  England  would  have  invaded 
Germany.  It  would  have  served  them  good  and  right  to 
have  their  houses  burned  over  their  heads,  their  farms 
ruined,  their  aged  made  homeless." 

"In  other  words,  you  would  have  punished  Germany  for 
the  intended  offense,  as  she,  according  to  her  lights,  is 
chastising  Belgium  and  France !  For  you  understand,  of 
course,  what  is  not  generally  understood,  that  the  spirit 
which  animates  the  German  soldier  is  a  punitive,  a  de 
fensive  spirit.  The  Junkers  and  the  Potsdam  gang  may 
have  been  toasting  'The  Day'  for  decades,  for  all  we  know. 
But  the  peasant  in  the  fields,  the  man  in  the  street,  the 
clerk  in  the  Bureau,  all  these  knew  nothing  of  'The  Day.' 
What  they  do  know — or  rather  think  they  know — is  that 
Russia,  England  and  France  wanted  to  dismember  Ger 
many,  wanted  to  plunder  the  Fatherland  and  to  enslave 
her  millions." 

"They  can't  really  believe  such  rot,"  Guido  exclaimed, 
disgustedly. 

"They  do.     Read  this." 

Professor  Geddes  handed  Guido  the  original  German 
version  of  Lissauer's  famous — or  infamous — "Chant  of 
Hate." 

Guido  read  it  in  silence. 


YOUTH  381 

"You  we  will  hate  with  a  lasting  hate; 
We  will  never  forego  our  hate — 
Hate  by  water  and  hate  by  land, 
Hate  of  the  head  and  hate  of  the  hand, 
Hate  of  the  hammer  and  hate  of  the  crown, 
Hate  of  seventy  millions,  choking  down; 
We  love  as  one,  we  hate  as  one, 
We  have  one  foe  and  one  alone — 
ENGLAND !" 

"Well?"  Professor  Geddes  inquired  as  Guido,  having 
finished  reading  the  outrageous  fustian,  sat  staring  stupidly 
at  the  table. 

"Why,  it's — it's  taken  my  breath  away,"  said  Guido.  "It's 
vitriolic.  It's  infamous.  It's  madness.  It's  scurrilous  and 
noisome.  It's  obscene." 

"You  are  right,"  Professor  Geddes  rejoined.  "It  is  ob 
scene.  Hatred  is  obscenity,  for  hatred  means  a  prostituting 
of  the  spiritual  energies  and  functions  to  base  purposes. 
And  therein  lies  the  crime  of  the  German  people.  They 
are  not  conquest-mad  but  hate-mad.  As  a  race,  Germans 
possess  the  power  of  idealization  in  a  pre-eminent  degree. 
It  is  a  precious  gift,  but,  like  every  other  gift,  contains 
in  itself  the  germ  of  a  corresponding  fault.  There  was  a 
time  when  Germany  was  completely  under  French  in 
fluence.  Frederick  the  Great  disdained  his  native  German 
as  a  vehicle  of  poetry  and  wrote  poor  French  in  preference. 
Then  came  a  time  when  Germany  saw  in  England  the  Alpha 
and  Omego  of  virtue  and  wisdom  and  initiative.  This 
attitude,  no  doubt,  was  due  largely  to  the  fact  that  without 
England's  aid,  Germany  would  have  continued  indefinitely, 
perhaps  eternally,  under  French  rule  following  the  Na 
poleonic  invasions.  Now  Germany  has  gone  to  the  op 
posite  extreme.  She  either  defies  or  anathematizes.  She 
idealizes  or  execrates.  She  knows  nothing  of  the  golden 
mean  which  is  the  pleasant  habit  of  races  practicing  mental 
temperance.  The  German  phlegm,  of  which  we  have  heard 
so  much  in  the  past,  is  merely  an  outer  accouterment.  The 
German  mind  is  much  too  enthusiastic  to  be  well  poised. 
Enthusiasm,  another  exquisite  grace  charged  with  a  fatal 
germ,  makes  the  German  self-assertive,  dogmatic,  seem 
ingly  ill-bred,  tactless  and  unfair.  It  is  prone,  also,  to 


382  THE  HYPHEN 

make  him  appear  a  trifle  grotesque.  At  any  rate,  in  allow 
ing  hatred  completely  to  usurp  his  reason,  the  German  has 
opened  the  gates  of  his  mind  to  the  most  preposterous 
and  heinous  heresies  which  the  modern  world  has  yet 
seen." 

"Many  Americans  seem  to  think  that  the  German  people 
are  simply  being  forced  to  fight,"  Guido  suggested. 

"You  cannot  force  several  million  men  to  fight.  Not 
now-a-days.  We  are  only  on  the  threshold  of  the  mightiest 
drama  which  has  ever  taken  place,  and  as  the  play  pro 
ceeds,  and  scene  after  scene  is  enacted,  many  things  which 
now  are  dark  and  incomprehensible,  may  become  plain. 
But  one  thing  is  perfectly  plain  now.  Whether  of  spon 
taneous  growth,  or  artificially  fostered  for  obvious  reasons 
by  the  military  clique,  hatred  of  England,  based  on  fear 
of  England,  is  the  dominant  motive  actuating  the  average 
German  to-day.  Hate  of  England  is  the  cohesive  agent 
which  is  binding  all  Germany  together  as  one  man.  It  is 
the  force  that  is  energizing  Germany's  millions  to-day." 

"Fear ?"  Guido  caught  at  the  one  word.  "The 

Germans  would  resent  that  charge  more  than  any  other. 
Fear  means  cowardice !"  His  thoughts  flew  back  to 
Dobronov.  Dobronov's  diagnosis  tallied  with  the  Profes 
sor's,  a  fact  so  startling  that  Guido  said  nothing  more. 

"Not  necessarily,"  the  Professor  retorted.  "Cowardice 
is  fear  of  fearing  a  thing,  fear  of  fear,  in  other  words. 
Courage,  if  not  fearless  in  encountering  the  thing  feared, 
is  at  least  fearless  of  fear." 

"Well,"  said  Guido,  "all  this  does  not  disprove  my  state 
ment  that  Otto  is  turning  himself  topsy-turvy  in  order  to 
play  the  apologist  for  Germany.  Why,  sir,"  he  continued, 
warming  to  his  subject,  "I  have  seen  Otto  as  a  boy  pick 
up  a  dog  that  had  been  run  down  by  an  auto,  and,  on 
finding  that  nothing  could  be  done  for  the  poor  brute,  use 
the  money  which  he  had  saved  up  for  a  'pure'  to  pur 
chase  chloroform  with  which  to  end  the  mongrel's  agony. 
And  when  we  were  children  Otto  told  me  that  he  used 
to  lie  awake  nights  crying  because  I  was  ill  and  in  pain. 
And  this  soft,  tender-hearted  boy  thinks  the  violation  of 
Belgium  regrettable  but  natural  and  proper." 

"Does  he  think  the  atrocities  natural  and  proper?" 


YOUTH  383 

"He  denies  them,  of  course.  'English  lies'  to  befuddle 
America !" 

"Just  you  wait  until  he  finds  out  that  they  are  not 
'English  lies.'  Just  you  wait  until  all  the  German  sym 
pathizers  find  out  that  Germany,  and  not  England,  has  been 
doing  all  the  befuddling." 

"But  will  they  find  out?  And  if  they  do,  will  it  really 
make  any  difference?  You  know,  Professor  Geddes,  there 
are  folks  who  say  that  this  Schrecklichkeit  is  not  merely 
the  sum  total  of  individual  excesses,  such  as  happen  in 
every  war,  but  is  part  of  a  premeditated  game." 

"I  have  heard  the  same  charge  made,"  Professor  Geddes 
replied.  "Of  course,  in  every  war  a  certain  amount  of 
that  sort  of  thing  is  bound  to  occur,  is,  in  fact,  considered 
indispensable.  During  the  Boer  War,  Lord  Kitchener  laid 
waste  huge  tracts  of  land.  Sherman,  in  his  March  to 
the  Sea,  destroyed  the  crops  in  the  fields  and  drove  the 
cattle  before  him  so  that  no  other  army — coming  after 
his — might  find  food  or  provender." 

"Yes,  but  neither  had  his  men  shoot  the  aged  and  the 
infirm  and  bayonet  children  and  drive  old  women  before 
them  to  protect  themselves  against  the  enemy  fire,  or  gouge 
out  the  eyes  of  the  wounded,  and  cut  off  the  hands  of 
civilians " 

Professor  Geddes  rose  and  began  striding  up  and  down 
the  apartment.  His  agitation  was  intense.  He  did  not 
speak  until  he  had  regained  his  self-control. 

"I  refuse  to  believe  those  stories  until  we  have  absolute 
proof  that  they  are  true,"  he  said.  "Some  of  them  can 
not  be  true.  When  I  spoke  of  'atrocities'  I  meant  the 
shooting  of  innocent  civilians  as  a  punitive  measure  for 
'sniping.'  The  other  outrages — I  cannot,  I  will  not,  believe 
them." 

"Then  you  think,  too,  that  those  stories  are  deliberately 
manufactured  for  circulation  in  America?" 

"No !  A  thousand  times,  No !  But  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  the  war  lie — an  unconscious  exaggeration  at  first 
hand ;  at  second  hand,  exaggeration  for  artistic  purposes ; 
at  third  hand,  exaggeration  for  moral  purposes;  all  falsi 
fications  being  performed  subconsciously  as  it  were,  and 
strangest  of  all,  accepted  as  soon  as  uttered  as  truth  by 


384  THE  HYPHEN 

the  falsifier  himself.    The  psychology  of  the  war  lie  awaits 
explanation  at  the  hands  of  a  future  Freud." 

"Still,"  Guido  persisted,  "anyone  telling  or  repeating 
such  a  lie  must  have  some  sense  of  his  turpitude." 

"Yes,  of  course,  if  they  were  deliberate  liars,  which  they 
are  not.  In  case  of  isolated  atrocities,  which,  no  doubt, 
have  occurred,  the  same  temporary  inhibition  of  the  moral 
sense  and  moral  judgment  must  be  cited  not  in  extenuation 
but  in  explanation.  Ordinarily,  only  the  most  hardened 
criminals  and  moral  perverts  would  be  capable  of  such 
outrages.  You  see  my  point,  don't  you?" 

"My  mind  sees  it  but  my  heart  doesn't,"  said  Guido. 
"Why,  sir,  would  you  believe  it?  After  a  very  stormy 
session  with  Otto  last  night,  before  I  could  sleep,  I  had 
a  little  evening  hate  of  my  own  as  a  nightcap.  I  killed 
off  half  a  dozen  Germans  with  my  own  hands.  I  bayoneted 
them.  I  shot  them.  I  stabbed  them.  I  bombed  them.  I 
committed  assassination  as  cold-blooded  as  that  at  Sera- 
jevo.  I  tried  to  picture  what  these  fiendish  German 
officers  are  like,  what  sort  of  werewolf  fluid  flows  in  their 
veins  in  place  of  blood.  I  concocted  unheard-of  tortures 
for  them  and  discarded  them  as  quickly  as  invented  as 
far  too  mild  and  gentle.  And  I  hated  and  detested  as 
I  never  hated  and  detested  before  in  all  my  life.  And  I've 
indulged  in  some  pretty  little  hates  on  my  account  in  the 
past,  believe  me!" 

"Have  a  care,"  said  Professor  Geddes.  '  'Ware  of 
hatred.  You  see  the  pass  to  which  it's  brought  the  Ger 
mans.  Consider,  if  indulged  in,  to  what  pass  it  might 
bring  you." 

"I  suppose  I  am  making  a  fool  of  myself,"  said  Guido, 
but  without  contrition. 

Professor  Geddes  laid  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"Your  making  a  fool  of  yourself  has  done  me  a  world 
of  good,"  he  said.  "I'll  'fess  up.  A  few  minutes  ago  I 
was  on  the  point  of  making  a  fool  of  myself.  That's  the 
worst  of  hatred — like  begets  like — and  it's  a  villainous 
progeny  to  unloose  upon  the  world.  Let's  keep  our  hearts 
clean  of  hatred,  Guido.  Let  us  condemn,  and  be  indignant, 
and  fight  for  the  right  if  we  can  and  may,  but  don't  let 
us  lower  ourselves  to  the  level  to  which  the  Germans  have 
sunk." 


YOUTH  385 

Janet  had  come  into  the  room  while  her  father  was 
speaking. 

"Oh,  Daddykins,"  she  said.  "Apropos  of  the  War. 
Guido  has  not  yet  met  Herr  Casimir  Wesendonck.  Some 
name,  Guido.  What?" 

"Some  name,"  Guido  assented.  "He  ought  to  have  a 
succulent  title  to  set  it  off  properly." 

"Well,  he  hasn't.  Not  even  a  miserable  little  'von'  and 
that  is  no  fun  for  him,  poor  thing,  for  he  almost  doubles 
up  with  reverence  when  speaks  of  the  hohe  Adel  of 
Allemania." 

"Janet,"  said  her  father  with  severity,  "how  often  have 
I  told  you  that  puns " 

"Millions  of  times,  Daddy.  If  not  millions,  then  as  many 
as  we  each  have  ancestors  in  the  twentieth  generation 
plus." 

"Plus  what?"  Guido  demanded. 

"Plus  the  ancestors  who,  being  connecting  links,  are 
wedged  in  between.  Daddy,  did  you  ever  figure  it  out? 
If  each  ancestor  could  count  once  only,  we  never  would 
have  been  achieved,  for  there  weren't  enough  people  living 
at  one  time  twenty  generations  back  to  go  round  as  an 
cestors  for  even  a  single  one  us.  So  we  must  have  shared 
ancestors.  Perhaps,  Daddykins,  Dr.  Koenig  and  the 
Kaiser  had  the  same  ancestor  or  ancestress.  Wouldn't  that 
be  funny?" 

"Janet,  we  were  discussing  the  War,"  said  the  Professor, 
mildly  reproving. 

"How  can  you — without  Herr  Casimir  Wesendonck's 
able  assistance?  Daddy,  we'll  ask  mother  to  have  him 
over  for  dinner  next  Sunday  and  then  Guido  can  see  the 
creature  disport  himself." 

Our  stern  young  moralist  did  not  approve  of  levity  in 
connection  with  the  War.  But  Janet  irrepressible  was  Janet 
irresistible.  Guido  laughed. 

"Just  what's  the  matter  with  Casimir?"  he  inquired. 

"Oh,  he  suffers  from  a  complication  of  ailments.  Ail 
ment  number  one — common  as  a  cold-in-the-head — a  swelled 
head." 

Professor  Geddes  threw  up  his  hands  in  mock  despair 
and  retreated  to  his  desk. 


386  THE  HYPHEN 

"Guido,"  he  said,  feebly,  "take  Janet  to  the  drawing- 
room." 

"Not  before  you  hear  whether  my  diagnosis  of  Casimir 
is  correct,"  said  Janet.  "Ailment  number  two,  very,  very 
serious.  No  absolute  cure  recorded  as  yet.  Anglophobia! 
Ailment  number  three  almost  always  fatal,  especially  when 
occurring  in  malignant  form,  and  our  poor  friend,  I  am 
so  sorry  to  say,  has  contracted  the  disease  in  the  most 
virulent  form  known.  Furor  Teutonicus!" 

"Janet,  will  you " 

"I  will.  Oh,  my  august  father.  Obedient  to  your  most 
honorable  wishes,  I  efface  my  most  humble  and  miserable 
self,  taking  with  me  our  honorific  visitor." 

From  Janet's  nonsensical  talk  Guido  was  prepared  for 
a  middle-aged  German  of  the  futile,  boorish  type. 

He  was  considerably  surprised,  therefore,  on  meeting 
Herr  Wesendonck  a  few  Sundays  later,  to  see  a  singularly 
handsome,  tall,  well-set-up  young  man  of  about  twenty- 
five,  who  carried  with  him  an  air  of  mingled  bon  camaraderie 
and  courtesy  which  inevitably  invited  the  description  of 
"gallant."  He  seemed  out  of  place  in  the  faultless  civilian 
clothes  which  he  wore.  Guido  had  a  quick  vision  of  him 
as  he  might  appear  in  the  white  and  golden  uniform  of 
the  Cuirassiers  in  which  the  Kaiser  had  been  so  fond  of 
presenting  himself  in  ante-bellum  days.  He  was  very  fair. 
His  hair  was  a  deep,  soft  gold  and  his  eyes  were  blue,  as 
became  a  true  Teuton.  His  skin  was  rosy  with  health. 
He  was,  all  in  all,  a  very  attractive  young  fellow  and,  truth 
to  tell,  Guido  became  woefully,  hopelessly,  desperately 
jealous  of  him  the  moment  he  saw  him.  The  splendor  of 
young  Wesendonck's  personality  shed  a  new  light  on 
Janet's  ridicule  of  him.  Doubtless  she  was  in  love  with 
him — why  shouldn't  she  be? — and  was  employing  ridicule 
to  disguise  her  real  feelings. 

Dinner  passed  off  very  pleasantly  indeed.  Wesendonck 
represented  a  type  of  German  that  Guido  had  never  met. 
He  had  manner  as  well  as  manners,  conversation  as  well 
as  small  talk,  and  knew  perfectly  when  and  where  each 
was  in  place.  He  was  an  excellent  raconteur  and  filled 
conversational  gaps  at  table  with  lively  anecdotes  quickly 
and  fluently  told.  Even  Cecil  seemed  crude  and  awkward 
beside  him.  By  the  time  dinner  was  over  and  before  ever 


YOUTH  387 

a  word  had  been  said  about  the  War,  Guido  hated  him 
valiantly  with  a  hatred  in  which  there  was  no  desire  to 
make  a  beastly  vulgarian  of  himself  by  using  bayonet  or 
bomb.  The  hatred  with  which  he  was  filled  was  just  a 
polite,  drawing-room  sort  of  hatred  in  which  annihilation 
is  envisaged  but  not  actively  desired;  for  you  see,  Wesen- 
donck  had  been  very  attentive  to  Janet  during  the  meal, 
and  the  girl  had  seemed  more  shy  and  gentle  under  his 
attentions  than  was  her  wont. 

Cecil  effaced  himself  immediately  after  dinner.  He  said 
he  had  planned  to  attend  Vespers  at  St.  John  the  Divine, 
a  church  sufficiently  far  removed  to  necessitate  his  im 
mediate  departure.  As  Guido  learned  subsequently  from 
Janet,  Cecil,  whenever  Wesendonck  was  in  evidence  on  a 
Sunday,  was  seized  with  an  unquenchable  desire  to  attend 
four-o'clock  service  at  the  Cathedral.  The  racial  antipathy 
between  these  two  was  strong;  the  dashing,  brilliant, 
quick-witted  German,  whose  national  and  individual  ego 
were  developed  almost  to  the  point  of  blatancy;  the  sub 
stantial,  reticent,  slow-tongued,  high-bred  English  boy  to 
whom  self-emphasis  was  the  most  insufferable  of  social 
sins. 

Cecil  having  expunged  himself,  Janet  gave  Guido  a  kill 
ing  look,  which  said  as  plainly  as  words : 

"You  may  look  for  the  performance  to  begin." 

And  a  performance  it  was  and  begin  it  did  at  a  deftly 
turned  phrase  of  Janet's.  Wesendonck  changed  abruptly 
from  an  innocuous  and  pleasing  Apollo  Belvidere  to  a 
business-like  and  thoroughly  efficient  disciple  of  Mars. 
Niceties  of  discrimination  between  conversation  and  small 
talk  and  their  application  vanished.  Henceforth  Wesen- 
donsk  was  almost  a  monologuist. 

"Why,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  Americans  are  being  duped 
by  England.  Incomprehensible  to  us,  after  your  experi 
ence  with  her  in  the  past." 

"It  was  a  German,  not  an  English  king,  who  lost  Eng 
land  her  Thirteen  Colonies,"  said  Guido,  contemptuously, 
glad  of  his  chance  in  the  ring  at  last. 

"You  don't  suppose  I  was  referring  to  the  Revolution, 
do  you?"  Wesendonck  inquired,  politely,  "or  even  1812? 
Oh,  no.  I  refer  to  England's  part  in  the  Civil  War." 

Guido  bit  his  inner  lip.     From  the  tail-end  of  his  eye 


388  THE  HYPHEN 

he  caught  th°.  appreciative  smile  on  the  Professor's  lips. 
He  had  also  a  strong  sense  of  Janet,  intense  and  watchful 
near  his  elbow.  Was  she  wearing  his  colors  or  Wesen- 
donck's?  His — since  he  spoke  for  America  and  the  Allies. 
Guido  gritted  his  teeth.  This  German  was  no  mean  ad 
versary.  Apparently  he  knew  American  history  as  well 
as  Guido  did — perhaps  he  knew  it  better.  Well,  it  was 
also  possible  that  Guido  knew  a  little  more  of  German 
history  than  Wesendonck  might  find  agreeable.  Guido 
would  give  the  German  a  run  for  his  money. 

"England's  part  in  the  Civil  War  was  not  as  reprehensible 
as  is  usually  believed,"  Guido  retorted.  "Once  Lincoln 
issued  the  Emancipation  Act,  England  was  guilty  of  no 
further  unfriendly  acts." 

"Of  course — if  you  choose  to  believe  the  English  apolo 
gists!"  Mr.  Wesendonck  smiled  fatuously. 

"I  believe  that  that  was  the  true  cause  of  England's 
change  of  front  in  the  Civil  War,"  Guido  replied  pleasantly, 
"because  it  is  strictly  in  line  with  England's  inimical  atti 
tude  toward  slavery  during  the  half-century  preceding  the 
Civil  War.  Remember,  if  you  please,  at  the  end  of  the 
Napoleonic  Wars,  after  England  had  saved  Germany  from 
France's  further  aggressions,  it  was  England,  through  the 
person  of  Lord  Castlereagh,  that  insisted  on  the  abolition 
of  slavery  throughout  the  countries  involved  in  the  peace 
negotiations." 

"Permit  me  to  correct  a  misstatement,"  said  Mr.  Wesen 
donck,  with  a  civility  which  would  have  been  servile  but 
for  an  undertone  of  arrogance,  insinuated  Guido  knew  not 
how,  into  his  words. 

"Bitte,"  said  Guido,  with  the  same  exaggerated  punctilio. 

"Not  Wellington,  but  Bluecher,  saved  Germany  from 
Napoleon.  Bluecher  also  saved  England  from  Napoleon. 
Wellington,  it  is  true,  gave  Bluecher  a  little  help  of  no 
particular  significance.  The  English,  with  their  habit  of 
braggadocio,  pretended  that  the  glory  of  the  day  went  to 
English  arms.  Every  German  school-boy  knows  better." 

"Apparently,"  said  Guido,  "Germany  is  re-writing  history 
as  well  as  biography  to  suit  her  needs.  I  see  that  in  Leipzig 
the  other  day  Shakespeare  was  formally  adopted  by  your 
compatriots." 

"And  very  properly  so,"  Wesendonck  flung  black.    "Eng- 


YOUTH  389 

gland  never  appreciated  Shakespeare.  If  it  were  not  for 
Germany's  efforts  Shakespeare  would  have  been  forgotten 
long  ago  in  England.  It  is  only  envy  of  the  magnificent 
German  Shakespearian  productions  that  make  second-rate 
English  actors  like  Irving  and  Beerbohm  Tree  attempt 
Shakespearian  roles.  It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  England, 
during  the  last  century,  has  not  produced  a  single  Shake 
spearian  actor  of  the  first  water,  like  Possart  or  Sonnen- 
thal.  Shakespeare,  if  he  were  alive  to-day,  and  if  it  were 
possible  to  chose  one's  own  nationality,  would  self-evi- 
dently  have  elected  to  be  a  German.  The  English,  eaten 
up  with  envy  of  Germany's  general  superiority,  cannot  see 
this,  cannot,  of  course,  be  expected  to  see  it,  since  mag 
nanimity  is  a  dead  letter  in  Britain.  But  Germans,  who 
understand  Shakespeare  so  well,  so  much  better  than  any 
mere  superficial  Englishman  is  capable  of  understanding 
him,  comprehend  this  perfectly.  That  is  why  we  were 
right  in  formally  adopting  the  great  poet  as  a  German. 
He  himself  would  have  wished  it.  It  was  our  way  of 
showing  him  respect,  of  indicating  that  we  hold  no  grudge 
against  him  because  he  happens  to  have  been  born  on 
English  soil.  It  was  the  highest  honor  with  which  we  could 
crown  him." 

Janet,  who  had  literally  sat  open-mouthed  with  amaze 
ment,  at  this  point,  sad  to  relate,  clapped  her  hands  over 
her  mouth  and  giggled.  Neither  of  her  parents  rebuked 
her  with  as  much  as  a  look,  but  Wesendonck,  of  the  perfect 
manner  and  manners,  looked  astonished  and  grieved. 

Guido  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Janet,"  he  said,  not  without  a  glimmer  of  sardonic 
humor,  "apparently  thinks  that  Beerbohm-Tree  was  a 
German,  too.  'Birnbaum' — you  know." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Wesendonck,  his  aggressiveness  restored 
by  this  happy  explanation  of  the  giggle  which  had  dis 
concerted  him.  "Oh,  no !  Tree  is  a  very  indifferent  actor. 
If  he  had  one  drop  of  German  blood  in  his  veins,  he  would 
do  very  much  better." 

Janet  giggled  again.     Professor  Geddes  said  hastily: 

"How  about  Forbes-Robertson?  His  Hamlet,  you 
know " 

"Forbes-Robertson  ?  I  have  never  heard  of  him,"  Wesen- 
donk  replied  in  a  tone  which  said  as  plainly  as  words  that 


39o  THE  HYPHEN 

any  actor  unknown  to  Casimir  Wesendonck  was  an  actor 
unworthy  of  the  name. 

"Then — there  are  some  American  actors — English-speak 
ing  if  not  English — who  should  be  mentioned,"  Professor 
Geddes  continued.  "We  are  rather  fond  of  Sothern  and 
Marlowe,  you  know.  And  of  Booth  we  were  proud." 

"My  dear  sir!"  Wesendonck's  tone  was  confidential. 
"As  an  educated  man  you  cannot  expect  a  German  to  take 
any  American  actor,  any  American  novel  or  play  or  so- 
called  work  of  art  seriously." 

Again  a  ripple  of  half -smothered  hilarity  burst  from 
Janet,  and  Mrs.  Geddes  said: 

"Child,  whatever  started  you  coughing  like  that?  Find 
yourself  a  coughdrop."  And  Janet  bolted  from  the  room. 

Guido  was  not  smiling.  Nor  was  Professor  Geddes. 
And  neither  was  angry  or  indignant.  Both  were  telling 
themselves  that  there  was  being  offered  for  their  inspection 
a  most  interesting  psychological  study.  Was  Wesendonck 
mad?  Was  he  a  fair  exemplar  of  German  thought  and 
opinion  and  conviction?  Guido  did  not  believe  it.  Such 
pachydermic  obtuseness  surely  could  be  found  in  isolated 
instances  only,  and  happy  chance  had  thrown  that  isolated 
instance  his  way.  Bad  as  the  Germans  were,  surely,  they 
were  not  entirely  mad. 

"You  spoke  of  Bluecher's  saving  England,"  Guido  said, 
reverting  to  the  earlier  theme.  "I  think  Germany,  rather 
than  England,  was  endangered  by  Napoleon." 

"It  was  Napoleon  who  said  that  Antwerp,  in  the  pos 
session  of  a  strong  armed  force,  was  a  pistol  pointed  at 
the  heart  of  England." 

Was  there  malevolence  or  merely  allusiveness  in  the 
reply?  Only  a  few  days  since  Antwerp  had  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  the  Germans.  Guido,  coming  up  the  subway 
stairs  at  Times  Square,  had  seen  the  headline  of  the 
Courier  des  Etats-Unis  staring  him  in  the  face:  "Anvers 
est  tombe  ce  matin!"  And  for  some  reason  that  headline, 
telling  in  French  of  a  great  city's  fall  had  impressed  him  as 
no  English  or  German  or  Russian  headline  had  ever  im 
pressed  him.  It  had  made  him  feel  queer  and  sick.  There 
are  spiritual  experiences  in  every  life  which  defy  analysis. 
Guido  could  formulate  no  explanation  for  this  one. 

Answering  Wesendonck,  he  said,  quietly: 


YOUTH  391 

"The  pistol  is  now  in  German  hands." 

"Yes,  and  let  England  beware,  let  her  beware!"  Wesen- 
donck  cried.  "She  has  held  us  down  long  enough.  This 
is  the  German  War  of  Independence.  Ah,  we  will  make 
England  suffer  for  her  perfidy  in  the  past." 

"But  what  in  heaven's  name  has  England  done?" 

"Surely  you  are  merely  feigning  ignorance  of  her  un 
believable  greed  and  hypocrisy." 

"No,  I  am  not,"  Guido  said  bluntly.  "I  am  asking  for 
information  and  I  would  appreciate  getting  it.  I  would, 
really.  You  pro-Germans  always  generalize  and  never  come 
down  to  hard  facts." 

Wesendonck  stared  at  Guido  in  amazement  which  very 
evidently  was  entirely  unfeigned. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "the  history  of  England  is  a  history  of 
robbery  and  piracy.  Great  Britain  is  the  robber  nation, 
the  hypocrite,  the  arch-liar,  the  prince  of  oppressors." 

'Generalization,"  said  Guido,  contemptuously.  "I  asked 
for  facts." 

"Facts!  Like  Gradgrind.  I  see.  I  refer  you  to  any 
text-book  on  English  history.  Witness  all  her  colonies, 
the  theft  of  Gibraltar,  her  Indian  Empire,  her  outraging 
of  the  Boer  Republics.  Perfidious  Albion  has  much  to 
answer  for.  She  shall  suffer  yet." 

"As  far  as  I  can  judge,"  Guido  remarked,  calmly,  "it's 
envy  that  is  biting  you." 

"Envy?  Say  rather  moral  indignation,  a  profound  con 
viction  that  we,  the  Germans,  the  most  ethical,  religious, 
cultured  and  moral  people  on  earth  have  been  chosen  by 
Providence  to  chasten  the  unspeakable  Gorgon-headed, 
Octopus-tentacled  monster  which  is  called  the  British 
Empire." 

Guido  thought: 

"This  is  sheer  lunacy." 

He  said:       » 

"And  how  do  you  propose  to  chasten  this  monster?  By 
throwing  bombs  from  your  Zeppelins  upon  insignificant 
civilians  in  England — as  you  did  a  week  ago  at  Bethune?" 

The  contempt  and  irony  in  Guide's  voice  escaped  Wesen 
donck.  He  cried  in  a  voice  of  triumphant  exultation: 

"That  miserable  little  affair  was  just  a  prelude,  just  an 
earnest  and  a  promise  of  what  is  to  come.  Just  watch 


392  THE  HYPHEN 

and  see  what  is  going  to  happen  to  London  in  a  very  short 
time.  We  have  a  large  fleet  of  Zeppelins  and  one  fine 
night  all  London  will  go  up  in  a  blaze  of  glory.  We  have 
other  little  surprises  up  our  sleeve.  Shall  I  play  the  prophet 
and  foretell  some  of  the  events  of  the  coming  season  ?  By 
Thanksgiving  we  will  be  in  Paris.  By  Christmas  we  will 
be  in  command  of  Calais  and  Dunkirk.  New  Year's  Eve 
we  will  celebrate  in  London — or  rather  in  what  is  left  of 
London  after  our  Zeps  and  our  big  Berthas  have  finished 
with  it." 

Grossvater  Geddes,  who  had  given  his  undivided  attention 
to  the  discussion,  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"Herr  Wesendonck,"  he  said,  "when  the  Germans 
wrought  such  cruel  havoc  in  Belgium,  they  explained  it  on 
the  ground  of  military  necessity.  This  projected  onslaught 
upon  England  cannot  be  thus  explained.  Why,  then  ?" 

Wesendonck  seemed  greatly  astonished  by  this  question. 

"I  thought  I  had  made  that  plain,"  he  said.  "To  punish 
England,  of  course.  She  has  not  been  invaded  since  the 
days  of  William  the  Conqueror.  Through  suffering  she 
will  be  chastened  for  past  misdeeds,  for  the  atrocious  tricks 
she  employed  in  starting  this  terrible  war,  for  that  crowning 
act  of  barbarism  of  which  she  was  guilty  when  she  forced 
into  the  world  conflict  all  the  savage  races  under  her  own 
and  France's  dominion — the  Gurkhas,  the  Turcos,  the 
native  Indian  regiments." 

"Why,"  Guido  cried,  "when  the  War  started  you  Germans 
foretold  that  all  England's  'oppressed  races'  would  rise 
against  her  as  a  man !  You  posed  as  their  liberator !  You 
did  not  call  them  savages  then." 

Wesendonck  went  livid  with  rage. 

"England  is  making  them  fight  for  her,"  he  almost 
shouted.  "She  is  making  them !" 

"That  is  what  some  folks  think  of  Germany — that  the 
German  soldiers  are  being  forced  to  fight»" 

Wesendonck  appeared  to  think  this  vastly  amusing. 

"Yes,"  Guido  assented,  "I  agree  with  you.  So  does 
Professor  Geddes.  We  realize  no  people  can  be  made  to 
fight  as  the  Germans  are  fighting  if  they  do  not  want  to 
fight.  The  same  belief,  however,  applies  to  other  races 
and  other  nationalities,  Turcos  and  Hindus  included.  It  is 
your  rage  at  having  failed  to  bring  about  uprisings  through- 


YOUTH  393 

out  the  British  Empire  that  is  now  making  you  shout  your 
selves  hoarse  with  indignation  over  England's  'latest 
perfidy.'  " 

.  For  a  moment  Wesendonck  threatened  literally  to  ex 
plode.  The  danger  of  self-annihilation  by  spontaneous  com 
bustion  passed.  He  said: 

"It  is  not  our  fault  if  all  those  oppressed  races  failed 
to  take  advantage  of  their  golden  opportunity.  At  any 
rate,  England  will  be  made  to  suffer  for  her  Rassenverrat!" 
He  fairly  hissed  the  last  word. 

"Rassenverrat!"  Guido  repeated,  thoughtfully.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  that  one  word  was  the  equivalent  of  a  volume 
of  commentaries  on  the  Teutonic  attitude  toward  every 
thing  and  everybody  not  German,  and  on  their  sincere 
conviction,  stupendously  asinine  though  it  was,  that  the 
Germans  were  a  specially  endowed  and  generally  superior 
race. 

"At  any  rate,"  Wesendonck  continued,  "all  this  talk  on 
England's  part  of  going  into  the  war  to  save  Belgium  is 
buncombe.  England  is  fighting  for  England.  Or  rather, 
England  is  letting  others  fight  for  England.  Ah !  England 
is  clever.  England  is  wily.  But  by  New  Year's  Eve  we 
Germans  will  have  brought  her  to  her  knees — and  then  you 
shall  see  what  you  shall  see." 

"I'm  almost  sorry,"  said  Guido,  "that  we  did  not  declare 
war  the  moment  Belgium  was  invaded,  as  of  course  we 
might  have  done.  You  could  not  possibly  have  laid  all 
the  abominations  at  our  door  which  you  charge  against 
England." 

"Oh,"  said  Wesendonck  easily,  "America  will  not  go 
into  the  War.  She  is  making  money  far  too  abundantly 
in  the  ammunition  traffic.  And  she  will  make  more  still 
unless  we  stop  her." 

"Unless  you  stop  us!"  Guido  caught  his  breath.  "May 
I  inquire,"  he  asked,  "why  so  patriotic  a  German  as  your 
self  remains  in  neutral  America  instead  of  rushing  to  the 
defense  of  the  Fatherland?" 

"My  dear  fellow !  I'm  an  American  citizen.  I  came 
here  immediately  after  having  served  my  year  in  the  Army 
as  Freiwilliger." 

A  queer  sound  escaped  the  Professor's  throat.  His  eyes 
were  cold  and  hard  as  he  asked: 


394  THE  HYPHEN 

"I  would  be  interested  to  learn  how  your  tender  Teutonic 
conscience  reconciles  your  American  citizenship  with  these 
strictures  on  America." 

"My  dear  sir !"  Wesendonck  seemed  genuinely  surprised. 
"America  is  not  in  the  least  concerned  in  this  War!  The 
conflict  is  primarily  between  Germany  and  England.  The 
War  is  none  of  America's  business.  Why  is  she  inter 
fering?" 

Guido  breathed  audibly  with  anger.  His  hatred  for  this 
glittering,  handsome  man  was  no  longer  of  the  drawing- 
room  variety.  He  now  would  cheerfully  have  made  a 
vulgarian  of  himself  by  using  upon  Wesendonck  bayonet 
or  hand  grenade.  He  understood  what  it  means  to  be 
"fighting  mad." 

Quoth  Professor  Geddes: 

"In  the  first  place,  my  dear  Wesendonck,  the  conflict  is 
not  primarily  between  Germany  and  England.  It  is  be 
tween  Germany  and  the  entire  world.  This  suspicion  has 
come  to  me  before  and  I  have  beaten  it  back  as  savoring 
of  hysteria.  But  you  have  settled  the  point  for  me  beyond 
peradventure  of  a  doubt.  And  now  I  will  tell  you  the 
real  reason  why  Germans  rail  at  England  the  way  they  do. 
While  Sir  Edward  Grey  was  still  making  superhuman  ef 
forts  to  stay  the  mad  impulse  of  the  Continental  Powers 
toward  war,  he  was  approached  by  the  Imperial  German 
government  with  the  request  to  make  a  promise  that  Great 
Britain  would  not  go  into  the  war,  even  if  France  were 
attacked!  The  perfidy  which  Germany  charges  against 
England  was  committed  by  herself.  The  object  of  the 
Triple  Alliance  was  precisely  to  guard  against  an  uncalled- 
for  attack  by  Germany.  Naturally,  as  England's  statesmen 
are  not  imbeciles,  they  recognize  the  strategic  importance, 
and  the  importance  in  the  Balance  of  Power,  of  Belgium 
and  of  an  intact  France.  That  does  not  minimize  England's 
decency  in  scornfully  rejecting  Germany's  overtures.  She 
might,  you  know,  have  rejected  them,  lulled  Germany  to 
false  security,  allowed  France  to  grapple  single-handedly 
with  her  treacherous  neighbor  while  she  prepared  for 
eventual  war.  For  England  was  unprepared!  And  that 
one  fact  alone,  compared  with  the  marvelous  perfection  of 
Germany's  preparedness,  vindicates  England's  honor  and 
hopelessly  damns  Germany." 


YOUTH  395 

Professor  Geddes  had  spoken  with  an  incisive  vigor  and 
earnestness,  but  Wesendonck  was  silenced  for  a  moment 
only.  Then  he  calmly  retorted : 

"Professor  Geddes,  you  are  misinformed!  The  trouble 
is  that  you  Americans  believe  all  these  English  lies,  instead 
of  trusting  Germany,  who  would  have  been  your  staunch 
friend  in  the  future  if  you  had  treated  her  decently  now !" 

For  a  moment  this  reply,  with  all  it  implied,  left  even 
Professor  Geddes  speechless.  Then  he  resumed,  completely 
ignoring  the  retort,  which  in  itself  was  indicative  of  the 
clandestine  hopes  and  aspirations  of  Germany  and  the 
Germans. 

"You  say  this  war  does  not  concern  America,"  the  Pro 
fessor  said.  "As  America  is  embraced  in  the  world,  it 
does  concern  America.  Even  if  America  were  geographic 
ally  situated  outside  the  earth,  she  would,  if  accessible  to 
the  earth,  be  very  much  concerned  in  this  conflict.  That 
is  so  because  America  is  the  ideal  exponent  of  humane 
ness.  In  her  all  races  mingle  and  blend  and  live  side  by 
side.  The  very  pith  of  marrow  of  our  being — for  upon  it 
depends  not  only  our  welfare  but  the  possibility  to  exist 
at  all — is  absence  of  race  prejudice,  while  Germany  is 
the  most  extraordinary  exponent  of  the  glorification  of  race 
prejudice  which  the  world  has  ever  been  harrowed  with." 

"America  and  absence  of  race  prejudice,"  Wesendonck 
sneered.  "Why,  then,  do  you  burn  your  negroes  at  the 
stake?" 

"Those  are  sectional  outbursts,  not  even  sectional,  com 
munal  within  sectional,  I  should  say.  The  entire  country 
condemns  and  deplores  these  outbursts.  In  Germany  the 
entire  nation  seems  to  uphold  and  glory  in  race  prejudice 
and  to  think  it  a  very  fine  virtue. 

"This  thing  which  you  have  done,"  Professor  Geddes 
continued  with  gathering  heat,  "is  so  monstrous  that  we 
in  America  with  our  spiritual  ideals " 

Wesendonck  interrupted  him  with  a  burst  of  laughter. 

"Do  please  forgive  me,  Herr  Professor,"  he  said,  "but, 
really,  I  see  now  that  you  are  joking.  America  and 
spiritual  ideals!  Spiritual  ideals  in  the  land  of  the  dollar- 
chasers!  Spiritual  ideals!  You  want  me  to  make  the 
obvious  retort,  do  you  not?  Spiritual  ideals  are  not  pos 
sible  to  a  nation  without  a  culture  of  its  own.  And  you 


396  THE  HYPHEN 

have  no  indigenous  culture.  You'll  admit  that.  You  plead 
your  youth  in  extenuation.  Wasn't  it  Oscar  Wilde  who 
said  that  America's  youth  is  her  oldest  tradition?  What 
little  culture  you  possess  is  English — therefore  steeped  in 
cant  and  hypocrisy.  Just  wait  till  we  drink  our  Neu- 
Jahrs-Bowle  in  London — after  that — England's  downfall 
achieved,  German  culture  will  dominate  the  world.  And 
it  will  penetrate  as  far  as  America.  Then,  the  United 
States  will  become  steeped  in  a  culture  that  is  culture.  For 
your  silly  Indian  traditions,  which  really  do  not  concern  a 
white  race  at  all,  you  will  substitute  those  beautiful  old 
legends  which  cluster  about  the  ancient  German  mythology, 
the  legends  of  Thor  and  Frigga,  the  Nibelungenlied,  the 
Gudrunsage.  Then  will  your  poets  have  better  material 
to  work  with  than  now.  Yes,  yes,  Professor  Geddes,  let 
all  men  and  women  of  German  origin  rejoice.  Within  ten 
years  German  will  be  taught  in  the  Public  Schools  of 
America  in  place  of  English.  Our  splendid,  memory-aid 
ing,  logical,  sensible  German  tongue  will  supplant  the 
irrational,  illogical,  barbarous  English  tongue." 

On  and  on  he  raved.  There  was  no  stopping  him.  Like 
the  wheels  of  Juggernaut  he  rushed  on.  Neither  Professor 
Geddes  nor  Guido  made  any  further  attempt  to  gainsay 
or  to  argue  with  him.  Finally,  a  little  after  four  o'clock, 
he  remembered  that  he  had  a  supper  engagement,  and 
having  made  sweeping  bows,  and  sent  his  excuses  to  the 
ladies — Mrs.  Geddes  had  made  her  escape  from  the  room 
early  in  the  afternoon — he  hurried  away. 

Grossvater  Geddes  began  walking  the  floor,  his  hands  on 
his  back. 

"Nun,  Eduard"  he  said  presently,  addressing  his  son, 
"show  me  two  more  German  chauvinists  like  Wesendonck, 
and  I'll  be  as  rabidly  anti-German  as  any  of  you." 

With  his  head  bowed  upon  his  breast  the  old  man  walked 
from  the  room. 

Guido  also  was  cerebrating.  This,  then,  was  the  real, 
orthodox  German,  the  German  of  pure,  unadulterated,  un- 
contaminated  breed.  The  difference  between  this  product 
of  modern  Germany  and  German-American  boys  like  Otto, 
or  Henry,  struck  Guido  as  glaring  and  strange.  There 
was,  on  the  part  of  German-Americans,  a  harking  back 
to  origins,  a  yearning  for  racial  affiliation,  a  sort  of  honest, 


YOUTH  397 

childlike  faith  that  your  own  racial  kith  and  kin  could 
not  do  anything  really  bad  and  that  the  other  fellow,  who 
ever  he  might  be,  must  be  the  real  villain.  Their  hatred 
for  England,  even,  was  based  on  an  honest  belief  that 
England  was  all  that  the  German  newspapers,  and  speakers, 
and  preachers,  and  magazines  represented  her  to  be. 
German-Americans  were  notoriously  docile  and  amenable 
to  authority,  and  they  were  as  potters'  clay  in  the  hands 
of  their  crafty  and  shrewd  brethren  from  over  the  sea. 
In  the  simon-pure,  "made-in-Germany"  human  article 
there  was  a  vein  of  malevolence,  of  evil  satisfaction  in  the 
ability  to  cause  suffering,  which  the  German-American 
lacked.  The  average  German-American  was  a  kindly 
creature,  swift  and  efficient  in  the  alleviation  of  pain  and 
painstakingly  observing  the  decencies  of  life.  Guido  now 
saw  in  the  German- American  a  sublimated  dupe  of  the 
German.  He  thought  that  he  had  stumbled  upon  a  won 
derful  discovery  and  hugged  it  close.  It  enabled  him  to 
transfer  all  his  anger  from  the  one  to  the  other.  He  even 
felt  a  boundless  compassion  for  the  German-Americans 
who  allowed  themselves  to  be  inoculated  with  the  crass 
stupidity,  the  sublime  conceit,  the  obtuse  tactlessness,  the 
overweening  racial  arrogance  of  his  transatlantic  brother. 
As  a  result  of  this  cogitation  Guido  felt  inclined  to  be  more 
kindlily  disposed  toward  his  former  school-mates  than  he 
had  been  since  the  War  started.  For  his  great  discovery 
let  them  out  so  beautifully. 

"It's  an  obsession,"  Professor  Geddes  remarked,  pres 
ently,  "it's  an  obsession.  You  cannot  argue  with  a  loco 
motive  running  wild.  You  have  got  to  stop  it,  that's  all. 
God  pity  bleeding  Europe." 

As  Guido  was  leaving,  he  met  Cecil  at  the  door.  Cecil 
had  just  signed  for  a  telegram  and  was  reading  it. 

"I'll  walk  to  the  corner  with  you,  Guy,"  he  said,  thrusting 
the  telegram  into  his  pocket  "Is  that  fellow  gone?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm  glad  I  went  to  Vespers  at  the  Cathedral.  They 
had  a  minister  from  Brooklyn,  a  very  fine  fellow  with 
strong  socialistic  tendencies.  I  do  not  approve  of  social 
ism  at  all.  In  fact,  I  disapprove.  But  this  chap  was  just 
a  humanitarian — the  brotherhood  idea  had  gotten  hold  of 
him — I  could  see  that.  But  what  struck  me  hard  was 


398  THE  HYPHEN 

this.  I  cannot  imagine  an  Episcopalian  minister  in  Eng 
land  with  socialistic  tendencies  preaching  from  a  pulpit 
of  the  Established  Church.  In  fact,  I  cannot  very  well 
imagine  an  Episcopalian  minister  being  a  socialist.  Here, 
in  America,  in  your  greatest  and  most  authoritative 
Protestant  cathedral,  the  thing  is  done.  And  it  was  done 
soberly,  decently.  The  fellow  was  a  sort  of  Fabian,  a 
parlor  socialist.  I  was  more  impressed  than  I  can  say. 
Tolerance,  forbearance,  freedom  to  have  your  views  and 
to  air  your  views — that's  America.  That's  what's  making 
America  so  great.  You  people  aren't  afraid  of  anything. 
You're  not  afraid  of  socialism,  Christian  Science,  Methodist 
Revivals,  Catholic  missions,  Billy  Sundays,  prize-fights. 
The  melting  pot  is  big  enough  for  it  all,  and  you  are  quite 
incredibly  certain  that  nothing  but  pure  metal  is  going  to 
be  smelted  out  of  the  miscellaneous  ore  that  is  dumped  in. 
I've  decided,  Guido,  to  become  an  American  citizen  when 
I'm  of  age.  Thought  you'd  like  to  know.  If  I  live." 

"If  you  live?"  Guido  demanded,  struck  by  a  new  note 
in  Cecil's  voice. 

"Yes,  I'm  leaving  for  home  to-morrow  morning.  I'm 
going  to  enlist  in  a  Canadian  regiment." 

"Cecil !     You're  not  old  enough." 

"I'm  a  year  older  than  you  and  I'm  ten  years  more  fit 
for  war.  I'm  wiry — men  of  the  Bantam  class  usually 
are." 

"But  why — if  you  intend  becoming  an  American  citizen 
— why  do  you  want  to  enlist  now — for  England?" 

"I've  thrashed  the  thing  out  thoroughly.  You  first  of 
all  have  something  to  do  with  it.  When  you  took  that 
long  tramp  up  in  the  mountains  and  were  laid  up  after 
wards  for  twenty-four  hours,  the  reason  you  gave  me 
for  doing  it  was  that  while  you  knew  it  would  hurt  you 
to  do  it  you  knew  also  that  it  would  hurt  you  not  to  go. 
Something  like  that.  Well,  your  grit  put  grit  into  me. 
For  one  thing  I  want  to  know  what  it's  like." 

"Cecil !" 

"Then — there's  Belgium.  One  can't  get  away  from  Bel 
gium.  It's  all  about  one — it's  unavoidable,  it's  everywhere. 
So,  for  another  thing,  I'm  going  over  there  to  escape  Bel 
gium.  And  then,  last  of  all,  principally,  perhaps,  it's  because 
England  has  been  slandered  so  basely,  so  maliciously.  That 


YOUTH  399 

fellow — to-day — he  did  his  bit,  I  warrant,  at  maligning 
Britain." 

"Yes,  and  America,  too." 

"Naturally.  I  tell  you,  I've  got  to  get  back  at  them  for 
that — for  all  those  foul  slanders." 

"How  will  your  aunt  take  it?" 

"Aunty  is  a  brick.  I  wrote  her  for  her  permission.  She 
wired  me  in  reply.  Read  for  yourself." 

Guido  unfolded  the  telegram  which  Cecil  handed  him, 
and  read: 

"Your  parents  would  be  proud  of  you  and  so  am  I." 

Guido  handed  the  telegram  back  to  Cecil.    Then  he  said : 

"Cecil,  it's  bully  fine  of  you.  It  makes  me  more  ashamed 
than  ever." 

"Why?  They  wouldn't  take  you  at  any  rate,  you're 
underweight,  too  frail.  And  it's  not  America's  quarrel — 
yet.  In  a  few  years  perhaps.  There  is  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of. 

"I  know  you  are  thinking  that  it's  easy  enough  for  me 
to  say  that,"  Cecil  continued,  "and  I  know  I'd  feel  as  you 
do  in  your  place.  It's  the  sense  of  race  operating  in  you. 
I  told  you  we  could  never  get  wholly  away  from  race, 
didn't  I?  But  then — it's  easy  enough  to  swim  with  the 
stream,  but  you're  swimming  against  it,  and  that's  fine, 
that's  splendid.  And  then,  Guy,  though  the  Germans  have 
gone  stark,  raving,  tearing  mad  at  present,  they  are  a  very 
great  race.  Never  doubt  that.  Be  ashamed  of  their 
present  lunacy — it's  a  sort  of  moral  insanity,  you  know — 
but  don't  be  ashamed  of  them.  They  are  a  very  great 
race  in  spite  of  it  all.  My  father  was  quite  a  German 
scholar  and  never  tired  of  expatiating  on  German  great 
ness.  He  was  as  fond  of  Goethe  as  of  Shakespeare.  I 
can  repeat  some  of  his  favorite  quotations  now,  without 
knowing  their  meaning: 

"Ich  bin  ein  Tell  von  jener  Kraft, 
Das  stets  das  Boese  will,  and  stets  das  Cute  schafft." 

Guido  was  struck  by  the  appositeness  of  the  quotation. 
"How  odd,"  he  said,  "that  you  should  have  quoted  just 
that,"  he  said. 


400  THE  HYPHEN 

"What  does  it  mean?"  Cecil  inquired. 
Guido,  after  thinking  a  moment,  translated: 

"I  am  a  part  of  yon  dread  power, 
Which,  seeking  evil,  good  brings  as  its  dower." 

"Perhaps,"  Guido  concluded,  "Germany's  seeking  of  evil 
will  nevertheless  accomolish  good.  What  do  vou  say?  Is 
it  possible?" 

Cecil  did  not  reply  at  once.  After  a  pause,  he  said,  ab 
ruptly  : 

"I  think,  Guy,  your  premise  is  incorrect.  Germany  is 
not  seeking  to  do  an  evil  thing — not,  according  to  her 
lights.  She  is  acting  up  to  her  standards.  To  us  they 
seem  detestable.  To  her  they  seem  right  and  just.  Of 
course  we  are  not  yet  quite  clear  as  to  why  she  has  pre 
cipitated  this  war,  but  say  she  did  it  because  she  thought 
that  England's  W ' eltherrschaft  had  lasted  too  long,  because 
she  thought  that  England  was  entirely  inadequate  and  in 
competent  and  much  too  futile  for  the  part  for  which  she 
had  been  cast  on  the  world's  stage.  If  Germany  sincerely 
believes  all  this  and  thought  that,  what  with  her  old  age 
pensions  and  workingmen's  sick  benefits  and  compulsory 
military  training  and  unrepresentative  government  she 
could  do  better  for  herself  and  the  world  at  large  than 
England,  she  had  a  perfect  right  to  make  a  dab  at  ousting 
England  and  stepping  into  her  shoes.  But  she  had  no 
right  to  slander  England  as  she  has  done  and  as  she  is 
doing,  and  to  try  to  ascribe  to  England  the  identical  de 
signs  upon  herself  which  she  had  upon  Britain.  That's 
abominable.  And  she  is  going  to  suffer  for  it." 

Guido  had  listened  to  Cecil  with  growing  astonishment. 

"Then  you  do  not  quarrel  with  Germany  because  of  all 
this  talk  about  her  Hour  of  Destiny?" 

"No,  why  should  I?"  Cecil  responded.  "I  believe  in 
Britain's  destiny.  And  in  America's.  Why  shouldn't  the 
Germans  believe  in  Germany's  destiny?  If  German  culture 
is  really  as  superior  to  English  culture  as  Germans  claim, 
why,  then  Germany  deserves  to  win  out.  It's  a  case  of 
proving  who  is  the  better  man.  But  Germany  will  not 
win  out.  This  web  of  falsehood  and  malignancy  and  cant, 
this  vitriolic  hatred,  this  slandering  of  England,  this  pent-up, 


YOUTH  401 

viperish,  tigerish  exasperation  speak  plainly  of  envy — envy 
of  England's  greatness  and  power,  envy  of  her  methods, 
her  mental  endowments,  her  prowess  in  the  past.  And 
a  nation  that  is  envious  to  such  a  degree  lacks  the  final 
elements  of  greatness — poise  and  judgment." 

"In  a  German  magazine  article  which  I  read  recently," 
Guido  responded  thoughtfully,  "the  writer  compared 
Britain  to  an  old-established,  aristocratic  firm  which,  secure 
in  the  permanence  of  its  clientage,  does  business  in  a  happy- 
go-lucky  way,  lacking  initiative  and  innovation,  sedulously 
celebrating  holidays  and  half-holidays,  with  week-ends  in 
summer  and  Christmas  and  Easter  vacations  thrown  in 
for  good  measure.  Germany,  on  the  other  hand,  was  com 
pared  to  a  frugal,  alert,  business-like  new  firm,  anxious  to 
please,  willing  to  work  overtime  and  possessing  business 
imagination  and  tact.  The  writer  cited  the  case  of  an 
English  manufacturer  of  pocket-knives  who  refused  to 
make  a  change  in  the  style  of  handle  desired  by  the  South 
American  trade.  The  salesman  of  a  German  house  on 
his  own  responsibility  promised  to  have  his  firm  make  the 
sort  of  handle  that  was  wanted  and  secured  the  order." 

"Yes,"  said  Cecil  bitterly,  "and  he  might  have  added 
that  in  order  to  secure  the  order,  a  small  town  in  Germany 
was  renamed  Sheffield  so  that  the  South  American  customer 
believed  he  was  purchasing  English  steel  when,  in  truth, 
as  he  later  discovered  to  his  sorrow,  he  had  secured  the 
style  of  handle  he  desired  at  the  cost  of  very  inferior  blades." 

"Really?"  Guido  demanded.  "Are  you  sure?  It  sounds 
— well,  it  sounds,  you  know,  like  the  sort  of  trick  of  which 
Germans  are  continually  accusing  Americans  " 

Cecil  became  quite  excited. 

"You've  stumbled  upon  an  odd  twist  in  the  German 
character,"  he  said.  "They  are  forever  accusing  others  of 
the  very  things  they  are  doing  themselves.  Part  of  their 
policy  of  putting  the  other  fellow  on  the  defensive,  I  sup 
pose. 

"As  for  the  comparison  drawn  between  the  business  men 
of  Germany  and  England,"  Cecil  continued,  "why  is  it 
that  America  bars  Chinese  and  Japanese  labor?  White 
men  want  to  enjoy  leisure  time  and  the  fruits  of  Occidental 
civilization.  The  Chinaman  lives  on  rice  boiled  in  salt 
water  and  labors  eighteen  hours  a  day.  The  Polish  Jews 


02  THE  HYPHEN 

are  objected  to  by  some  people  on  the  same  score.  They 
live  on  fried  onions  and  are  satisfied  to  slave  for  a  pittance 
twelve  and  fifteen  hours  a  day.  Does  an  American  want 
to  do  that?  Or  an  Englishman?  If  incessant  work  is 
part  of  the  German  concept  of  the  scheme  of  things,  it's 
worth  fighting  to  save  the  world  from  becoming  a  place 
in  which  the  scramble  for  a  livelihood  would  be  intensified 
a  hundred  times.  The  world  wants  more  leisure,  not 
less." 

"If  you  believe  in  England's  destiny,  why  do  you  want 
to  become  an  American  citizen?"  Guido  asked  with  the 
irrelevance  and  directness  which  characterized  the  talk  of 
these  two  young  men. 

"I'm  going  to  answer  you  candidly,  and  I  hope  you  will 
not  resent  my  frankness,"  Cecil  replied.  "I  believe  in 
England's  destiny  and  I  also  believe  in  America's  destiny. 
I  believe  that  the  destiny  of  these  two  great  peoples  is 
irrevocably  bound  up  together.  America,  in  a  way,  is  a 
continuation  or  rather  an  extension,  of  Britain.  You've 
developed  along  different  lines.  On  the  whole  I  think  they 
are  better  than  Britain's.  You  have  a  largeness  of  view — 
really,  you  cannot,  you  simply  cannot  imagine  how  your 
outlook  upon  life  in  general  strikes  the  European.  Then, 
too,  you  are  so  beautifully  unhampered  by  tradition." 

Both  boys  fell  silent.    After  a  little  while  Cecil  said : 

"There  is  another  curious  twist  in  the  German  character. 
You'll  never  catch  them  dwelling  on  England's  real  mis 
demeanors.  Germany  helped  partition  Poland,  she  wrested 
Schleswig-Holstein  from  Denmark  and  divided  the  spoils 
with  Austria,  then  fought  Austria  because  she  wanted  to 
hog  it  all;  then  she  picked  a  quarrel  with  France  and 
helped  herself  to  Alsace-Lorraine.  And  yet  she  has  the 
face  to  howl  continually  about  England's  'aggrandizements' 
— Gibraltar,  which  came  to  us  in  the  course  of  an  honorable 
war,  and  India,  which,  Heaven  knows,  we  have  done  our 
best  to  civilize,  and  the  Boer  Republic — now  you  know, 
we  were  right  in  the  matter  of  the  Boer  War." 

Guido  nodded  assent,  and  Cecil  continued: 

"But  there  are  a  few  items  in  English  history  which  the 
average  right-minded  Briton  would  rather  not  be  re 
minded  of." 

"Ireland?" 


YOUTH  403 

"No,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  Ireland.  I  would  rather  not 
discuss  Ireland.  Superficially  England  is  wrong  in  the 
Irish  question,  but  I'm  not  certain  that  we  are  not  right 
intrinsically.  The  problem  of  Ireland  is  tremendous.  What 
I  meant  was  forcing  the  opium  trade  on  China.  To  my 
mind  that  was  England's  blackest  crime.  But  I've  never 
heard  a  German  complain  about  that.  You  see,  it  did  not 
interfere  with  the  growth  of  the  German  Empire. 

"But  I  have  not  yet  told  you,"  Cecil  continued,  "just 
why  I  intend  to  transpose  myself  from  a  British  subject 
to  an  American  citizen.  It's  because  I  think  you  in  the 
States  need  all  the  Anglo-Saxon  blood  you  can  get  to 
offset  the  influx  of  other  nationalities.  The  English  were 
the  earliest  American  settlers,  and  the  original  settlers  of 
the  Thirteen  Colonies  and  their  descendants  have  impressed 
most  of  their  essentials  upon  later  settlers.  But  the  breed 
is  now  in  jeopardy.  It  is  in  danger  of  being  absorbed 
and  dissipated  by  the  tremendous  tide  of  emigration  with 
which  you  are  deluged  year  after  year.  The  Germans  boast 
of  their  strength  in  the  United  States.  If  they  continue  to 
increase  in  the  same  arithmetical  progression  throughout 
another  half -century,  remaining  as  staunchly  true  to  the 
interests  of  the  Fatherland  then  as  now,  what  will  happen 
to  America?  The  entire  complexion  of  American  civiliza 
tion  will  be  changed.  I  believe  that  in  serving  America 
I  am  serving  England,  in  serving  England  I  am  serving 
America.  I  believe  in  the  joint  political  destiny  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  countries.  Paraphrasing  Benjamin  Frank 
lin,  I  would  like  to  say.  that  unless  England  and  America 
hang  together,  they  will  surely  hang 'singly.  No  one  has 
yet  fathomed  the  entire  significance  of  the  conflict  in 
Europe." 

Guido  was  struck  by  the  parallel  line  of  thought  evinced 
by  Cecil's  forecast  and  by  Wesendonck's  prophecy  that 
within  ten  years  after  England's  downfall  German  would 
have  usurped  the  place  of  English  in  the  American  public 
schools.  Wesendonck's  words  had  seemed  to  Guido  the 
miasmic  phantasmagoria  of  a  war-excited  brain.  But  Cecil 
was  anything  but  war-excited.  He  was  as  little  stirred  by 
the  thought  of  going  off  to  war  as  if  war  were  part  of 
the  daily  routine  mapped  out  for  him  for  the  coming  year. 
Guido  said: 


404  THE  HYPHEN 

"Needless  to  say,  I  prefer  English  influence  to  German, 
but  you  will  forgive  my  candor,  Cecil,  if  I  say  that  my 
idea  is  that  all  races  which  meet  here  must  contribute 
equally  to  our  national  life.  In  no  other  way  can  our 
ultimate  destiny  be  accomplished." 

"It  is  a  point  on  which  we  will  never  agree,"  Cecil  re 
joined.  "You  persist  in  confounding  race  prejudice  and 
race  consciousness.  We  in  England  are  conscious  of  race, 
but  we  show  less  race  prejudice  than  you  do.  The  average 
American  citizen  on  meeting  a  negro  at  a  dinner  given 
by  a  friend,  would  betray  some  sign  of  surprise  or  amaze 
ment  or  disapprobation.  The  average  Englishman  would 
accept  the  situation,  although  unusual,  as  entirely  meet  and 
proper." 

I  believe  in  the  joint,  co-equal  influence  of  all  races," 
said  Guido,  doggedly,  yet  feeling  that  perhaps  he  did  not 
understand  his  own  position,  and  all  he  was  committing 
himself  to,  any  more  than  he  understood  Cecil's.  He  was 
thankful  that  Cecil  did  not  pursue  the  issue. 

The  two  friends  parted  a  little  later.  Guido  was  greatly 
moved.  Cecil  showed  his  usual  toplofty  composure.  Guido 
watched  Cecil  stalk  away,  hands  in  pockets,  and  whistling 
gayly.  Guido  did  not  guess  the  emotion  hidden  under  that 
seeming  indifference. 

A  block  further  down  Guido  encountered  Otto,  who  in 
vited  him  home  for  supper. 

"We'll  have  the  house  all  to  ourselves,"  said  Otto,  but 
this  inducement  was  no  inducement  to  Guido,  for  "having 
the  house  to  ourselves"  signified  that  Otto  would  be  able 
to  bellow  out  his  pro-German  sentiment  as  lustily  as  he 
pleased  without  fear  of  disturbing  the  Sunday  evening 
game  of  whist  which  Otto's  married  sister  and  her  husband 
played  every  week  with  his  parents. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Guido,  "not  to-night."  And  he 
told  Otto  that  he  had  just  left  Cecil,  and  that  Cecil  was 
off  for  the  war. 

"A  fine  fellow,  Cecil,"  said  Otto,  heartily.  "It's  splendid 
of  him  to  go  even  if  he  does  fight  on  the  wrong  side.  But, 
of  course,  everybody  sticks  to  their  own." 

To  Guido,  whose  thoughts  were  always  spinning  along 
the  grooves  of  Right  above  Race  and  No  Race  Prejudice, 
this  argument  sounded  hollow  and  false.  And  yet  he  per- 


YOUTH  405 

ceived  the  analogy  of  thought  which  existed  between  Otto's 
terse,  off-hand  way  of  putting  the  thing,  and  Cecil's 
elaborate,  more  carefully  wrought  out  plea  for  race. 

He  was  still  smarting  from  his  long  session  with  Wesen- 
donck  and  he  had  no  desire  to  turn  on  the  sluice  of  vitupera 
tion  which  was  inevitable  to  a  discussion  of  the  war  by 
Otto.  So  he  vented  his  irritation  by  saying : 

"It's  a  wonder  you  like  Cecil,  seeing  he  is  English." 

"Oh,"  said  Otto,  "Cecil  is  so  fine  he  ought  to  have  been 
a  German." 

Guido  stared  but  made  no  comment. 

"It's  natural  that  Cecil  believes  all  those  English  lies," 
Otto  continued,  "but  I  don't  see  how  you,  a  German,  can 
take  any  stock  in  them." 

"You  are  forever  talking  about  'English  lies/ "  Guido 
rejoined.  "What  do  you  mean  by  that  phrase?  It  is  the 
Germans  who  are  doing  all  the  arguing  and  explaining  and 
palavering  about  fine  motives.  England's  attitude  is  as 
plain  as  plain  qan  be." 

"When  you  talk  like  that,"  said  Otto,  "I  can  no  longer 
regard  you  as  a  dupe  of  the  English.  I  must  look  upon 
you  as  practicing  connivance  in  their  lies." 

"Take  care,"  said  Guido,  "you  are  going  too  far." 

"Well,"  said  Otto,  "I  can  believe  anything  of  a  chap 
who  turns  traitor  to  his  race." 

A  sensation  as  of  physical  nausea  swept  over  Guido. 
His  gorge  rose.  Without  a  word  he  turned  and  walked 
rapidly  away.  A  little  further  on  he  thought  that  he 
should  have  showed  his  resentment  in  a  different,  more 
forceful  way.  The  more  he  thought  about  it,  the  more 
vexed  he  became,  not  only  with  Otto  and  Wesendonck 
and  all  German  sympathizers,  but  with  himself.  To  be 
vexed  with  ourselves  is  the  most  cruelly  bitter  of  all  vexa 
tions.  His  wrath  waxed,  throve  and  grew.  By  the  time 
he  reached  home  he  was  in  a  gale  of  fury.  There  was 
murder  in  his  heart. 

Through  the  window,  as  he  stopped  to  pull  out  his  latch 
key,  he  saw  that  which  fanned  his  fury  into  a  final  stage 
of  stark  blackness.  Frau  Ursula  and  Hauser  were  seated 
at  the  supper-table.  His  mother's  hand  lay  in  his  father's. 
She  was  speaking,  and  upon  her  lips  was  a  smile  of  rare 
tenderness.  Presently  his  father  lifted  his  mother's  hand 


4o6  THE  HYPHEN 

to  his  lips  and  kissed  it.  It  was  a  simple  and  homely 
and  innocent  enough  scene  as  passing  between  husband 
and  wife,  but  to  Guido  it  was  the  ultimate  drop  that 
made  his  cup  of  bitterness  overflow.  He  had,  on  returning 
from  Waldheim,  perceived  the  difference  in  the  atmosphere 
of  his  home.  Formerly,  at  best,  the  relations  between  the 
master  of  the  house  and  his  wife  had  approximated  an 
amicable  truce.  Now  mutual  affection,  confidence,  esteem 
prevailed.  To  find  oneself,  without  any  fault  of  one's 
own,  suddenly  deposed  from  the  lofty  pinnacle  of  being 
all  in  all  to  another  person,  and  to  see  someone  else  en 
throned  in  one's  place,  and  that  someone  else  one's  an 
cient  enemy,  is  enough,  surely,  to  curdle  the  milk  of 
human  kindness  of  even  an  earthly  saint.  And  Guido  was 
no  saint.  Not  by  any  means.  His  detestation  of  the  man 
he  called  father  and  believed  to  be  his  father  assumed  a 
new  virulence  and  was  suppressed  only  because  his  father's 
new  manner  toward  himself  made  overt  hostility  a  well- 
nigh  impossible  breach  of  the  decencies. 

Guido  found  his  latchkey  and  let  himself  in  as  silently 
as  he  might.  He  tiptoed  across  the  hall,  past  the  half- 
open  door,  intending  to  go  to  his  own  room  until  his  rage 
had  spent  itself.  He  was  by  this  time  in  one  of  those 
blind,  insensate,  desperate  rages  which  cannot  be  con 
trolled  or  checked  but  must,  like  a  tornado,  blast  and 
blight  and  run  their  destructive  course. 

He  felt  vaguely  that  to  meet  his  father  at  this  moment 
was  to  invite  disaster.  Unfortunately  Frau  Ursula  heard 
Guido  and  called  to  him  to  come  in  for  supper.  Guido 
thanked  her,  standing  on  the  threshold  of  the  dining-room 
door,  saying  he  desired  no  supper:  Then  Hauser  called 
to  him  and  urged  him  to  come  and  eat.  Hauser  was  in 
his  usual  Sunday  evening  mood.  The  contentment  which 
comes  with  rest,  and  good  food,  and  happiness  in  love 
lapped  him  about,  and  the  conglomerate,  bovine  satisfac 
tion  which  he  exuded  rasped  Guide's  nerves  like  a  file. 
He  thanked  Hauser  and  said  he  would  go  to  his  room. 
He  was  not  hungry. 

What?  Not  hungry?  At  Guido's  age,  Hauser  could 
have  eaten  a  five-course  dinner  every  two  hours.  As  to 
doing  without  supper  because  he  had  had  a  heavy  dinner 
was  absurd.  "And  you  need  not  fear  for  your  figure. 


YOUTH  407 

You'll  be  slender  at  forty.  Your  mother  has  saved  some 
delicious  cold  chicken  for  you,  so  you'd  better  change  your 
mind." 

Hauser  had  risen  and  had  retreated  to  the  open  fire 
place,  where  he  lit  a  cigar  with  every  symptom  of  succulent 
comfort.  Guide's  wrath  and  disgust  wrenched  him 
agonizingly.  He  was  angry  with  his  mother,  too.  He 
almost  hated  her  for  having  called  to  him,  for  allowing  his 
father's  caress,  for  saving  him  dainty  slices  of  cold  chicken 
and  expecting  him  to  eat  them.  Into  such  excesses  of 
emotion  does  hatred  betray  the  best  of  us.  Guido  forgot 
his  own  virtuous  strictures  on  the  hate-inspired,  hate-beset, 
hate-nurtured  Germans;  forgot  his  own  classically  calm 
julgment  that  hatred  carried  to  an  extreme,  is  obscene. 
He  contrived  to  say  with  ordinary  civility : 
"Thanks,  I  really  want  nothing  to  eat." 
Frau  Ursula  would  have  let  him  go — she  saw  unmis 
takable  danger  signs  in  his  eyes.  Twice  or  thrice  only  had 
she  seen  her  boy  in  a  black  rage.  She  did  not  desire  to 
see  him  plunged  into  fury  now,  least  of  all  before  her 
husband.  But  Hauser  obtusely  persisted.  He  enlarged 
upon  the  merits  of  his  wife's  supper.  Praised  her  genius 
as  a  cook  and  at  planning  a  meal,  paid  her  clumsily  jocular 
compliments.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  pitting  his  powers 
to  please  against  the  boy's  sullenness,  which  was  fast  com 
ing  to  a  head.  Frau  Ursula  nervously  clasped  and  un 
clasped  her  hands. 

"I   do  not  want  anything  to  eat,"  Guido  repeated   for 
the  dozenth  time.     "I  could  not  eat  anything,  if  I  wanted 
to.     I'm  sick  and  disgusted.     I'm  sick  and  disgusted  with 
the  pro-Germans.     I've  tried  to  think  of  them  as   fools. 
But  they  are  not  fools.     They  are  knaves — all  of  them." 
He  glanced  challengingly  at  Hauser.     He  no  longer  de 
sired  to  avoid  an  altercation.     On  the  contrary,  he  now 
ardently  desired  a  quarrel,  was  willing  to  court  it,  to  go 
out  of  his  way  to  meet  it  or  provoke  it. 
Hauser  said,  good-naturedly: 

"Well,  I'm  a  pro-German  and  I  am  neither  a  fool  nor 
a  knave.  So  I  think  you  will  have  to  amend  your  opinion 
to  embrace  my  case." 

"I'll  not  amend  it,"  said  Guido,  sharply.     "I  mean  what 


408  THE  HYPHEN 

I  said."  This,  of  course,  was  rank  insolence.  Hauser 
flushed  angrily,  and  his  wife  said,  speaking  quickly: 

"Guido,  you  had  better  go  to  your  room." 

"That's  what  I  wanted  to  do  when  I  came  in,"  Guido 
flung  back,  grumblingly.  "Why  wasn't  I  allowed  to  do  so 
then?" 

"Don't  speak  to  your  mother  like  that,"  said  Hauser,  in 
a  tone  of  authority. 

Guido  did  not  answer  in  intelligible  words,  but  con 
tinued  to  grumble,  and  Hauser  said,  less  harshly — for  to 
hear  his  wife  rebuke  her  beloved  Guido  had  been  balsam 
to  him  as  it  been  wormwood  to  the  boy: 

"Learn  to  respect  the  opinions  of  others,  my  boy,  even 
when  you  do  not  share  them." 

"I  respect  the  opinions  of  honest  men,"  said  Guido,  "but 
the  Germans  are  no  longer  honest  men,  they  are  liars  and 
robbers  and  murderers.  And  those  who  sympathize  with 
them  are  quite  as  bad." 

"Guido!"  Frau  Ursula  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  shocked 
amazement.  What  had  come  over  the  boy? 

Hauser,  still  good-naturedly,  said: 

"I  think,  Guido,  we  will  not  discuss  the  war  just  now." 

"If  I  feel  like  discussing  the  war,  I'll  discuss  it,"  said 
Guido.  "And  I'll  say  what  I  please.  I'm  ashamed  of  my 
German  blood  and  of  my  German  name." 

In  an  instant  all  Hauser's  beautiful  self-control  went  to 
pieces.  In  an  instant,  too,  he  was  on  his  feet,  very  near 
the  boy,  confronting  him  angrily,  with  purpling  face. 
Thus  the  two  stood  staring  at  each  other,  truculently, 
cruelly,  brutally. 

Frau  Ursula's  heart  almost  ceased  to  beat  with  horror. 
What  was  going  to  happen?  She  could  see  that  all  the 
latent,  pent-up  animosity  of  years  vibrated  between  them, 
strengthened  and  buttressed  by  the  compound  interest 
which  it  had  drawn  but  had  not  expended  during  the  de 
cade  of  its  dormancy. 

The  unexpected  happened.    Hauser  said  heavily,  angrily: 

"I'm  glad  to  be  able  to  relieve  you  of  part  of  the  shame 
you  feel  by  relieving  you  of  your  German  name.  My 
name  is  not  yours.  You  are  not  my  son.  I  hope  your 
own  name  will  suit  you  better." 

The  room  went  black  before  Frau  Ursula's  eyes. 


YOUTH  409 

The  shock  was  almost  as  great  for  Guido  as  for  herself. 
He  stared  stupidly  at  Hauser — stupidly  and  helplessly. 

"What  did  you  say?"  he  demanded. 

"You  heard  me.  You  did  not  misunderstand  me.  You 
are  not  my  son.  Better  ask  your  mother  to  tell  you  your 
real  name." 

Hauser  spoke  quietly.  His  anger  seemed  to  have  col 
lapsed.  Frau  Ursula  could  see  that  now  he  was  frightened, 
not  angry. 

"But  what  does  it  mean?"  Guido  stammered.  "What 
in  heaven's  name " 

Hauser,  as  white  now  as  Guido,  perked  his  thumb  in 
his  wife's  direction,  and  called  back,  as  he  left  the  room: 

"Your  mother  will  explain." 

Left  alone  with  Guido,  Frau  Ursula  experienced  the 
sense  of  futility  which  comes  with  the  drop  of  the  last 
curtain  of  a  tragedy.  She  had  not  had  time  to  readjust 
herself.  Her  mind  was  in  a  haze.  Confused  and  be 
wildered,  she  stared  at  Guido  in  a  perplexity  almost  as 
great  as  his  own. 

"Mutterchen?    What  did  my  father  mean?" 

Frau  Ursula  felt  a  violent  desire  to  laugh.  But  she 
did  not  slide  into  the  emotional  relief  afforded  by  hysteria. 
The  habits  of  a  lifetime  are  not  easily  broken;  but  it  may 
be  said  without  exaggeration,  that  in  the  few  moments  which 
elapsed  before  she  spoke,  she  had  suffered  torments  so 
violent  as  to  equal  the  summation  of  mental  anguish  of  an 
average  life- time. 

She  was  very  angry  with  Guido.  But  she  was  far,  far 
angrier  with  Hauser.  She  did  not  allow  herself  the  luxury 
of  introspective  analysis  of  Hauser's  words  at  this  mo 
ment.  She  felt  a  legion  of  emotions  which  she  would  later 
dissect.  At  the  moment  she  must  give  her  undivided 
attention  to  the  task  of  telling  Guido  the  truth  about  his 
parentage  in  such  a  fashion  as  to  retain  his  love.  To  lose 
that — Guide's  love — would  be  the  crowning  misfortune  of 
all.  She  had  lain  awake  nights  planning,  scheming  how 
ultimately  to  tell  him;  plotting,  in  her  weaker  moments, 
not  to  tell  him  at  all.  And  now,  at  a  most  inauspicious 
moment,  she  was  confronted  with  the  imminent  task  of 
revealing  to  the  boy  that  she  was  not  his  mother,  for  she 
could  not,  she  dared  not,  in  justice  to  herself,  withhold 


4io  THE  HYPHEN 

that  fact  from  him  now.  She  ground  her  teeth  in  impotent 
rage  at  Hauser's  renewed  insinuation.  She  envisaged  the 
terrible  possibility  that  Guido  might  despise  and  abhor  her 
for  the  deception,  humane  and  benevolent  though  it  had 
been,  which  she  had  practiced  in  allowing  him  to  believe 
that  she  was  his  mother. 

In  a  low,  constrained,  pitiful  voice  she  essayed  to  tell 
Guido  the  salient  points  of  the  story  of  his  parentage.  The 
boy  listened  in  silence,  asking  a  leading  question  now  and 
then.  Hour  after  hour  slipped  by  while  Frau  Ursula, 
after  first  telling  him  the  bare  outline,  embroidered  the 
story  with  all  the  pre-natal  theorizing  which  had  sur 
rounded  his  birth  and  which  was  to  eventualize  in  the 
achievement — on  his  part — of  the  Political  Synthesis  that 
was  to  bring  happiness  and  freedom  to  all  the  world  and 
to  all  the  peoples  thereof.  She  dwelt  briefly  on  his 
mother's  pre-marital  career.  She  observed  an  almost  ex 
aggerated  kindness  and  chivalry  in  her  recital  of  those — 
to  her — dark  chapters  of  Varvara  Alexandrovna's  life. 
She  saw  him  flush  painfully  as  she  reluctantly  narrated 
those  episodes  of  his  mother's  life  which  had  earned  her 
the  sorry  distinction  of  solitary  confinement.  He  remem 
bered  Dobronov's  slides  showing  the  fortress  at  Schlussel- 
burg  and  went  into  a  glow  of  shame.  Frau  Ursula's  com 
passion  for  her  boy  drove  from  her  heart  all  resentment 
against  him  for  his  share  in  the  catastrophe  which  was 
engulfing  herself. 

When  she  had  at  last  finished  her  story,  Guido  exclaimed, 
passionately : 

"I  will  never  think  of  that  Russian  woman  as  my  mother 
— never.  You — you  are  my  own,  my  true,  my  real 
mother."  And  he  flung  himself  at  her  feet. 

The  emotional  triumph  of  the  moment  compensated  her 
for  what  she  had  suffered  in  the  past  for  the  lad's  sake 
and  for  what,  for  his  sake,  she  would  suffer  in  the  future. 
So  she  told  herself.  So  she  believed.  So,  partly  and 
transiently,  was  true.  For  her  past  suffering  she  had 
already  been  compensated  in  part  by  her  recent  happiness. 
But  to  liquidate  future  suffering  anticipatorily  with  present 
joy  is  a  dubious  enterprise,  since  none  can  judge  of  pain 
that  is  to  come  by  pain  that  is  past.  All  emotional  ex 
periences  are  in  a  state  of  constant  flux.  Pain  and 


YOUTH  411 

pleasure  resist  every  effort  to  balance  them  as  credits  and 
debits  on  the  ledger  of  life.  As  Frau  Ursula  was  to  dis 
cover 

Guido,  for  the  nonce,  seemed  to  have  no  thought  ex 
cepting  to  repeat  over  and  over  again  the  same  passionate 
affirmation  that  to  Frau  Ursula,  and  to  no  one  else,  accrued 
the  sacred  title  of  "Mother."  What  had  that  other  woman, 
that  Russian  woman,  done  to  earn  it  ?  Nothing.  He  would 
never  render  the  name  to  her.  To  do  so  would  be  tanta 
mount  to  stealing  a  hallowed,  highly-prized  treasure  from 
Frau  Ursula,  would  be  the  equivalent  to  stealing  from 
himself  a  possession  as  pure  and  sweet  as  any  talisman. 
The  poor  lad  spoke  wildly.  Tears  choked  his  voice.  What 
he  said  was  hardly  understandable;  he  babbled  unintelli- 
gently  now  of  this  and  now  of  that.  Love  for  Frau  Ursula, 
scorn  and  contempt  for  the  Russian  woman  who  had  had 
the  heart  to  desert  her  babe  for  a  political  cause,  was  the 
burden  of  his  strange  medley  of  words. 

"No,  dear  Guido,  not  that,  not  that,"  said  Frau  Ursula, 
gently.  "I  must  have  told  my  story  very  badly  indeed  if 
you  received  that  impression." 

"I  received  the  only  impression  possible,"  cried  Guido, 
"although  you  tried  in  every  way  to  disguise  the  disgrace 
ful  truth!  You  were  more  than  lenient  in  your  telling  of 
wicked  and  unlovely  actions.  But  all  the  clemency  in  the 
world  cannot  make  black  white,  all  the  benevolence  in  the 
world  cannot  wipe  away  the  wrong-doing  which  it  con 
dones.  You  are  too  good,  too  pure,  too  noble,  to  have  any 
real  sympathy  for  assassins." 

"Hush,  hush,  my  dear,  dear  boy,  you  must  not  call  her 
that.  After  all  she  is  your  mother.  And  she  is  suffering 
cruelly  for  what  wrong  she  may  have  done." 

But  the  boy  again  vehemently  denied  the  right  of  Var- 
vara  Alexandrovna  to  be  called  by  that  name.  In  the 
swift  rush  of  wild  emotions  that  were  sweeping  through 
him,  the  agonizing  blow  to  his  pride,  his  disgust  and  shame 
and  horror  at  being  thus  mothered,  his  contempt  for  the 
methods  employed  by  the  "Russian  woman,"  and  his  almost 
violent  outpouring  of  love  and  admiration  for  Frau  Ursula, 
he  seemed  at  moments  like  one  demented. 

Suddenly  he  fell  upon  his  knees  and  buried  his  face  in 
her  lap,  as  if  he  had  been  a  small  child  and  not  a  young 


4i2  THE  HYPHEN 

man.  Frau  Ursula  put  her  arms  around  him,  and  lifted 
his  face  to  hers  and  gathered  him  to  her  heart. 

"My  son,"  she  said,  "my  beloved  son,  my  more  than 
son." 

But  Guido  could  not  reply ;  he  was  crying  bitterly. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  was  long  after  eleven  o'clock  when  Frau  Ursula  went 
to  her  room.  The  light  was  burning  in  Hauser's 
apartment  and  she  heard  him  pacing  the  floor.  Apparently 
he  had  waited  for  her.  She  had  hardly  entered  her  room 
when  he  rapped  at  her  door.  Most  particularly  she  did 
not  wish  to  speak  to  him  now ;  she  wished  to  have  time 
to  think  before  seeing  him.  She  paid  no  attention  to  his 
rapping,  but  a  second,  more  imperious  summons  brought 
the  perfunctory  "Herein"  to  her  lips  which  gave  him  per 
mission  to  enter. 

A  glance  at  his  face  told  her  that  he  had  spent  a  miserable 
evening.  But  this  did  not  soften  her  toward  him.  What 
he  had  done,  the  insinuation  which  he  had  revived,  was 
unforgivable. 

"Ursula,"  he  cried,  "I  do  not  know  what  you  are  going 
to  say  to  me,  but  whatever  you  say  or  think  or  do,  you 
cannot  despise  me  as  heartily  as  I  despise  myself." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  him  for  a  moment,  but  did  not 
reply.  Very  composedly,  as  if  he  were  not  present,  as  if 
she  were  quite  alone,  she  began  laying  away  her  hat,  her 
scarf,  her  veil. 

"Ursula!" 

"Well?" 

"I've  made  you  unhappy.  If  cutting  off  my  hand  or 
my  offending  tongue  could  make  the  thing  unsaid,  why, 
it  would  be  made  unsaid." 

Again  Frau  Ursula  lifted  her  eyes  to  her  husband's  face. 
The  fine  irony  in  her  eyes,  the  incredulous  smile — it  was 
barely  more  than  a  shadow  of  a  smile  subtly  tinged  with 
disdain — that  hovered  about  her  lips  stung  him  as  no  words 
could  have  done. 

"Ursula!" 

She  did  not  reply  this  time,  not  even  with  an  ejaculatory 
monosyllable,  but  sat  down  at  her  dressing  table  and  touch- 


4i4  THE  HYPHEN 

ing  the  chain  of  the  electric  lamp,  busied  herself  with 
mending  a  tiny  rent  in  the  lining  of  her  coat. 

"Ursula!" 

She  might  have  been  alone  in  the  room  for  all  the  at 
tention  she  gave  him.  Her  silent  contempt  frenzied  him. 

"Ursula,  you  have  never  treated  me  like  this  before. 
I  deserve  it,  I  know.  But  I  am  asking  you  to  forgive  me. 
I  am  throwing  myself  on  your  mercy.  What  can  I  say 
to  soften  you?"  Poor  Hauser,  with  an  eloquent  gesture 
of  the  hands,  and  with  a  look  so  pitiful  that  it  would  have 
softened  his  wife  at  any  other  time,  indicated  that  he  was 
willing  to  suffer  any  abasement,  or  punishment,  if  only 
she  would  take  him  back  into  grace.  He  begged,  plead, 
entreated,  implored.  He  was  ready  to  make  any  atone 
ment. 

But  his  desperate  rhetoric  aggravated  instead  of  dis 
sipating  his  wife's  thinly  veiled  contempt  and  nourished 
the  anger  which  she  was  nursing.  For  from  all  he  was 
saying,  it  was  apparent  that  he  was  conscious  of  no  offense 
save  only  that  of  telling  Guido  that  he  was  not  his — 
Hauser's — son.  The  luckless  man  by  his  pleading  widened 
and  deepened  the  chasm  which  his  rash  words  with  their 
insulting  allusion  had  opened  between  himself  and  his 
wife. 

Having  exhausted  '  himself  in  moral  prostrations,  he 
lapsed  into  a  frightened  silence. 

For  the  third  time  Frau  Ursula  raised  her  eyes  to  her 
husband's  face.  Genuine  amazement  was  mirrored  in  them. 
But  the  silence  that  was  maddening  the  man  remained 
unbroken. 

It  has  been  said  that  every  man's  and  every  woman's 
virtue  has  its  Achilles'  Heel.  Individual  pride,  also,  has 
its  vulnerable  spot,  which,  when  pricked,  reacts  with  a 
force  entirely  out  of  proportion  to  the  stimulus  applied. 
Frau  Ursula  had  a  charitable  disposition.  She  would  have 
forgiven  her  husband  occasional  lapses  from  conjugal 
fidelity,  holding  that  men  are  men  and  must  not  be  judged 
by  the  feminine  rule  of  two ;  she  would  have  forgiven 
him  intemperance,  seeing  in  that  manly  vice  the  human 
variation  of  tidal  wave  or  earthquake.  She  would  even 
have  stood  by  him  if  he  had  turned  defaulter  or  forger, 


YOUTH  415 

since  man,  being  the  weaker  ethical  vessel,  is  more  liable 
to  moral  aberration  than  woman. 

Fate  is  whimsical  and  sports  with  human  predelictions 
as  with  human  destiny.  The  one  thing  which  Frau  Ursula 
deemed  unforgivable  was  the  thing  Hauser  had  been 
guilty  in  the  past,  and  was  guilty  of  again  in  the  present. 
She  had  never  entirely  forgiven  him  for  his  former  be 
lief  in  her  pre-marital  lapse  from  virtue,  but,  being  both 
kindly  and  wise,  she  had  compromised  with  her  pride  in 
order  to  embrace  happiness.  And  is  not  compromise  nec 
essary  in  every  marriage?  Frau  Ursula  thought  it  was. 
She  believed,  however,  that  Hauser  had  been  sincerely 
convinced  of  her  innocence  when  he  recanted.  To  have 
that  heretical  belief  involving  herself  crop  up  again  after 
all  these  years,  at  a  time  when  mutual  confidence  and 
affection  were  the  established  order  of  the  day,  was  a  morti 
fication  and  a  humiliation  which  exceeded  the  bearable. 

She  felt  it  incumbent  to  say: 

"Do  you  still  believe  that  Vasalov  was  my  lover?" 

"My  dear,  I  have  never  blamed  you,  never  held  it  against 
you." 

"I  see  you  still  do  believe  it." 

Silence. 

"Ursula !" 

"Well  ?" 

"Say  something — for  heaven's  sake — say  something." 

"What  shall  I  say?  Years  ago,  when  happiness  was 
within  our  reach,  when  I  was  ready  to  give  you  affection 
and  esteem  and  love,  you  spoiled  our  dream  by  this  same 
infamous  charge.  You  repudiated  the  belief  a  few  weeks 
later  when  I  so  far  did  violence  to  my  primal  sense  of  honor 
as  to  produce  proofs  of  Guide's  identity.  It  seems  now 
that  you  were  insincere  in  your  repudiation,  and  that  you 
continued  to  believe  your  wife  a  woman  with  a  past." 

"What  language!"  Hauser  strained  his  declamatory 
powers  in  his  effort  to  convince  his  wife  that  never,  no, 
never,  had  he  thought  of  her  in  that  light. 

"You  mean — do  you  not? — that  you  did  think  of  me  in 
that  light,  but  that  because  you  happened  to  be  fond  of 
me  you  did  not  apply  the  customary  terms  to  me,"  said 
Frau  Ursula,  feathery  contempt  in  her  voice.  The  man's 
futility  as  a  psychologist  was  really  amazing. 


416  THE  HYPHEN 

Hauser  felt  the  despair  of  a  man  who  is  being  carried 
out  to  sea  on  a  raft  within  sight  of  those  who  could  save 
him  if  they  only  would.  He  redoubled  his  efforts  to  pro 
pitiate  his  wife.  He  not  merely  humbled  himself,  he 
groveled,  he  not  merely  groveled,  he  cringed.  But  Frau 
Ursula  was  obdurate.  He  had  excoriated  her.  That  she 
was  excoriating  him  did  not  enter  into  her  head.  She  said, 
finally : 

"You  are  protesting  too  much.  Let  there  be  an  end 
to  this  farce.  I  definitely  made  up  my  mind  an  hour  ago. 
I  am  going  to  leave  you." 

Hauser  did  not  believe  that  she  really  meant  what  she 
said,  but  he  did  not  dare  say  so.  He  realized  that  she 
was  in  a  dangerous  mood  and  that  he  must  not  cross  her. 
He  resumed  his  pleading.  He  pointed  out  to  her  that  he 
had  waited  her  pleasure  and  served  for  her  twice  the 
period  of  Jacob,  prototype  of  faithful  lovers,  had  waited 
and  served  for  Rachel.  He  had,  he  said,  in  all  that  time, 
observed  fidelity  to  his  marriage  vow.  He  loved  her — her 
alone. 

Frau  Ursula  laughed  bitterly. 

"Love!"  she  said,  contemptuously,  "is  love  love  without 
respect  ?" 

"In  your  heart  of  hearts  you  know  that  I  respect  as 
well  as  love  you,"  said  the  man.  "You  know  very  well 
that  only  supreme  love,  real  love,  not  passion  or  desire, 
can  make  a  man  overlook  a  fault  like  that  in  his  wife." 

It  was  a  telling  point,  but  it  did  not  find  its  way  to  her 
heart  at  the  moment.  It  lay,  lightly  tossed  upon  some 
superficial  brain,  whence,  unexpectedly  some  day,  it  would 
penetrate  the  thinking  level  and  emotional  depth. 

She  said: 

"A  woman  who  has  been  culpable  may  be  and  probably 
is  grateful  for  such  an  extremity  of  love.  An  innocent 
woman  resents  it." 

"Ursula !"  She  knew  from  his  tone  that  he  was  changing 
his  mode  of  attack.  "Ursula,  in  justice  you  must  admit 
that  the  proofs  of  Guide's  identity  which  you  submitted 
were  not  proofs  at  all.  You  showed  me  neither  birth 
certificate  nor  any  other  legal  document.  You  showed 
me  an  old  daguerreotype  of  a  friend  of  Dr.  Koenig's,  and 
asked  me  to  see  a  resemblance  between  the  face  of  the 


YOUTH  417 

portrait  and  Guide's  face.  I  saw  none.  But  I  pitied  you 
immeasurably.  I  realized  that  you  were  making  a  last 
desperate  effort  to  save  your  self-respect,  I  realized  that 
if  I  rudely  shattered  the  fiction  of  Guide's  birth  and  ante 
cedents,  which  you  wanted  me  to  believe  in,  I  would  irre 
parably  damage  your  self-esteem.  I  therefore  committed 
a  pious  fraud.  I  pretended  to  believe  your  yarn.  Why, 
why  do  you  blame  me  for  all  this,  since  my  deception 
was  actuated  by  the  purest  dictates  of  love?" 

"Your  effrontery  is  sublime,"  said  Frau  Ursula.  "In 
the  same  breath  you  implore  my  forgiveness  and  repeat 
your  fault.  I  refuse  to  continue  the  conversation." 

"You  will  have  to  hear  me  out."  Hauser's  manner 
changed.  He  was  no  longer  a  supplicant.  His  habitual 
air  of  authority  and  finality  had  come  back  to  him.  "You 
must  listen  to  the  rest  of  what  I  have  to  say.  There  was 
Vasalov,  and  the  resemblance  between  him  and  your  son 
was  too  palpable  to  admit  of  quibbling." 

Frau  Ursula  laughed  bitterly.  She  saw  no  resemblance 
between  Vasalov  and  Guido,  and  she  failed  to  apprehend 
that  another  eye  might  perceive  what  she  failed  to  see. 

"What  then,"  Hauser  continued,  "could  I  suppose  but 
that  you  were  the  boy's  mother?  I  have  never  seen  any 
woman  so  pathetically  enamored  of  her  offspring  as  your 
self.  An  adopted  child,  indeed!  Would  you,  could  you 
have  loved  a  strange  child  as  you  loved  Guido?  I  leave 
your  common  sense  to  supply  the  answer." 

Frau  Ursula,  when  not  blinded  by  anger,  had  a  fine 
perception  of  justice,  which  means  that  she  had  a  lively 
sense  of  relation  between  cause  and  effect.  She  was  now 
somewhat  abashed  by  the  crudeness  of  her  own  past 
psychological  processes  which  had  allowed  her  to  overlook 
a  matter  of  such  pith  and  moment  as  motive.  Truth  to 
tell,  she  had  all  but  forgotten  the  original  motive  that  had 
prompted  her  to  essay  the  role  of  Guide's  mother,  would 
perhaps  have  forgotten  it  with  even  greater  completeness 
and  greater  speed  if  it  had  not  been  for  Dobronov  and 
Vasalov  and  the  all-pervading,  interpenetrating  Synthesis. 
In  brief,  Guide's  father  had  been  completely  eclipsed  by 
Guido — and  by  Hauser.  Guide's  personality  had  won  its 
own  supreme  place  in  her  heart.  He  was  hers — as  surely 
as  if  he  had  been  flesh  of  her  flesh  and  blood  of  her  blood. 


418  THE  HYPHEN 

Yet  she  was  shrewd  enough  to  realize  that  that  nearness, 
that  spiritual  closeness,  that  sense  of  inviolable  intimacy 
would  never  have  been  achieved  by  the  son  of  a  different 
father. 

So,  to  herself,  she  grudgingly  admitted  Hauser's  per 
spicacity  even  while  she  was  furious  with  him  for  evincing 
it.  She  no  longer  loved  the  second  Guido.  He  was  to 
her  now  nothing  but  a  memory  and  the  joint  author  of  the 
wretched  Synthesis.  Nevertheless,  Frau  Ursula  preferred 
to  have  Hauser  continue  to  think  her  unchaste,  hideous  as 
that  condition  appeared  to  her,  to  disclosing  to  him  that 
she  had  given  love  where  love  had  not  been  returned. 

She  decided  to  let  the  case  against  her  go  by  default. 

"I  could  supply  the  answer  but  I  shall  not  do  so,"  she 
said,  coldly.  "I  am  leaving  your  home  to-morrow  morning 
with  Guido." 

"Surely  not!"  Hauser  spoke  with  determination.  As  a 
penitent  petitioner  he  had  seemed  to  her  contemptible. 
Now,  imperious,  masterful,  almost  overbearing,  he  com 
pelled  her  admiration.  But  she  held  out  against  him.  She 
did  violence  to  every  softer  emotion.  She  steeled  herself 
against  his  charm.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  she 
loved  Hauser  as  she  had  never  loved  him  before  at  the 
moment  when  she  was  preparing  to  leave  his  home.  Only 
one  thing  on  earth  could  have  made  her  reverse  her  de 
cision:  if  he  had  said  to  her,  conviction  in  his  voice  and 
eyes  and  manner:  "I've  been  a  brute  to  think  you  capable 
of  that  sort  of  thing.  Appearances  were  against  you.  The 
evidence  of  my  senses  was  against  you ;  the  evidence  of 
my  judgment  was  against  you.  Nevertheless  it  was  un 
forgivable  that  I  did  not  cast  aside  this  cumulative  evidence 
in  favor  of  the  higher  tribunal  of  the  soul!  I  should 
have  known  that  you  were  quite  incapable  of  that — that 
passion  could  never  have  moved  you  to  a  point  passing 
decorum.  I  am  culpable.  I  have  steeped  myself  in  evil 
in  thinking  evil  of  you.  My  sins  have  made  me  a  pariah 
and  on  outcast.  But — forgive  me." 

The  miracle  for  which  Frau  Ursula  hoped  did  not  hap 
pen.  Hauser,  at  her  request,  finally  left  the  room  un- 
shriven. 

Early  the  next  morning  Frau  Ursula  and  Guido  left 
the  Hauser  mansion  and  went  to  the  Anasquoit  Hotel  to 


YOUTH  419 

live.  Guido  assumed  his  real  name,  his  satisfaction  in  the 
change  being  greatly  augmented  by  the  presence  of  the 
precious  little  word  "von,"  that  silver-decked  herald  of 
his  patronymic.  He  remembered  what  Egon  von  Dammer 
had  said  about  names  ending  in  "itz",  and  about  the  name 
"Guido"  and  that  it  comported  ill  with  "Hauser."  He 
almost  forgot  his  shame  in  his  German  blood  and  in  the 
vampirish  performances  of  Germany  in  his  excitement  and 
joy  that  Hauser  was  not  his  father. 

He  remembered  the  War  and  his  disgust  in  it  and  Cecil 
as  he  walked  home  to  the  hotel  from  college  for  lunch, 
and  fell  immediately  into  a  black  fit  of  self-disgust.  He 
had  heard  enough  about  the  first  Guido  von  Estritz  from 
Dr.  Koenig  and  Grossvater  Geddes  to  know  that  the  name 
was  instinct  with  honorable  traditions,  but  he  realized  that 
he  failed  to  grasp  its  entire  significance  and  all  it  had 
stood  for.  Presently  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  honor  of 
owning  so  fine  a  name  was  too  great  for  his  own  untested 
honor.  Then  he  remembered  "The  Russian  woman"  and 
an  entirely  different  set  of  feelings  were  aroused.  His 
facile  emotions  were  in  a  state  of  geyser-like  turbulence 
and  variability. 

He  was  in  the  singular  position  of  being  proud  of  his 
racial  affinity  to  Russia  but  ashamed  of  his  Russian 
mother;  on  the  other  hand,  he  fairly  palpitated  with  de 
light  in  his  von  Estritz  heritage,  while  detesting  the  thongs 
which,  by  virtue  of  the  von  Estritz  blood,  bound  him  to 
Germany. 

Frau  Ursula  apprehended  and  sorrowed.  Great  as  was 
the  boy's  love  for  her,  he  had  not  uttered  one  word  in 
commiseration  of  her  plight — for  the  plight  which  he  was 
directly  responsible.  She  had  not  been  able  to  bring  her 
self  to  tell  Guido  her  true  reason  for  leaving  Hauser,  and 
it  irked  her  horribly  that  Guido  accepted  as  verities  the 
platitudes  with  which  she  had  explained  her  separation 
from  Hauser. 

"You  and  I  will  be  happier  alone,"  she  had  told  him, 
and  he  had  acquiesced  in  the  statement  without  question 
or  parley.  She  did  not  wish  him  to  suspect  the  true  reason 
and  yet,  self -contradictorily,  she  desired  that  he  should 
surmise  that  there  was  an  ulterior  motive. 


420  THE  HYPHEN 

But  Guide  surmised  nothing  of  the  sort.  He  fell  in 
quite  unquestioningly  with  the  suggestion  that  the  Hauser 
household  had  been  disrupted  for  the  express  purpose  of 
making  life  happier  for  Guido  von  Estritz.  He  saw  nothing 
preposterous  in  that.  Frau  Ursula  wondered  and  wept  in 
secret.  She,  who  had  allowed  her  selfish  pride  full  sway 
in  taking  the  important  step,  was  revolted  by  the  healthy 
egoism  of  normal  youth  which  sees  in  every  agreeable 
occurrence  a  propitious  interference  of  Providence,  and 
reduces  all  actors  on  the  stage  of  life,  save  only  self,  to 
the  condition  of  satellites. 

Frau  Ursula  was  to  pay  dearly  for  her  immoderate  in 
dulgence  in  pride.  She  understood  this  before  her  first 
day  of  freedom  was  half  over,  and  was  filled  with  wild 
regrets.  She  hoped  desperately,  tremendously  that  Hauser 
would  come  to  the  hotel  to  renew  his  plea.  But  Hauser 
did  not  come. 

Meanwhile  the  news  that  Mrs.  Hauser  and  Guido,  the 
latter  under  a  new  name,  were  living  at  a  hotel,  blazed 
through  the  town  like  a  fire  and  brought  Dr.  Koenig 
and  Mrs.  Erdman  and  Tante  Baumgarten  hot-haste  to  the 
side  of  Frau  Ursula.  She  saw  them  and  none  else,  telling 
them,  for  circulation,  that  her  husband  and  she  had  agreed 
that  a  separation  was  desirable.  Guide's  story  was  known 
both  to  Mrs.  Erdman  and  to  Dr.  Koenig,  and  she  author 
ized  them  to  tell  it  to  anyone  who  asked,  with  the  necessary 
elision  of  Guide's  Synthetic  Destiny. 

Dr.  Koenig  was  consumed  with  curiosity  as  to  the  effect 
"  upon  Guido  of  his  new  knowledge  concerning  his  destiny, 
and  questioned  him  regarding  his  attitude. 

"It's  a  pretty  tall  order  to  wish  on  a  fellow,  isn't  it?" 
Guido  rejoined,  a  reply  which,  couched  as  it  was  in  Ameri 
can  slang,  scandalized  the  old  physician.  In  spite  of  his 
almost  ferocious  love  for  his  adopted  country,  Dr.  Koenig 
violently  disapproved  of  that  trait  of  Young  America 
which  Janet  had  once  described  as  "flipness."  He  brought 
the  conversation  around  to  the  same  point  again,  only  to 
encounter  a  silent,  stolid  resistance  very  unusual  in  Guido. 
The  plain  truth  is  the  boy  was  suffering  from  a  species 
of  stage- fright,  the  same  sort  of  stage- fright  which  had 
almost  paralyzed  his  creative  powers  after  the  Professor's 


YOUTH  421 

superlative  praise  of  his  short  story.  A  similar,  but  much 
stronger  sense  of  panic  oppressed  him  whenever  he  thought 
of  his  "destiny."  The  ridiculously  exaggerated  value 
placed  upon  his  pre-destined  and  fore-ordained  career  he 
felt  would  neutralize  anything  he  might  have  achieved  un 
hampered  by  such  a  string  of  nonsense.  That  "The  Rus 
sian  woman"  was  'partly  responsible  for  the  plan  dis 
credited  it  entirely  in  his  eyes. 

Mrs.  Geddes  sent  up  her  card  on  Tuesday,  but  did  not 
ask  to  see  Frau  Ursula.  On  her  card  was  penciled,  "If 
I  can  be  of  service,  command  me,"  an  unobtrusive  way 
of  extending  sympathy  which  Frau  Ursula  appreciated. 

Frau  Ursula  experienced  an  odd  reluctance  to  show  her 
self  in  the  familiar  streets  of  the  town.  The  truth  is  that 
she  was  ashamed.  There  was  no  reason  under  the  sun 
for  being  ashamed,  but  ashamed  she  was.  Some  hidden 
spring  of  the  heart  had  been  touched  and  was  sending 
forth  an  unsuspected  freshet  of  contrition. 

Day  after  day  went  by  without  bringing  Hauser  to  her 
side.  Hope  died  at  last,  leaving  her  bewildered,  fright 
ened  and  pained  beyond  words.  She  missed  his  hearty, 
slightly  domineering  way,  his  jocularity  with  dependents, 
the  aroma  of  his  inevitable  cigar. 

One  evening,  in  a  spasm  of  insufferable  nostalgia,  she 
donned  her  hat  and  coat  and  walked  to  the  door  of  the 
house  in  which  she  had  ruled  as  mistress  so  long.  From 
the  stoop,  through  the  window,  she  saw  Hauser  sitting  at 
the  table,  quietly  reading  his  evening  paper.  Something 
amused  him.  He  smiled.  That  smile,  the  natural  expres 
sion  of  a  transitory  amusement,  hurt  her,  shocked  her  in 
expressibly,  outraged  her  sense  of  decency.  She  tried  to 
argue  with  herself.  She  reminded  herself  that  only  that 
afternoon  she  had  not  merely  smiled  but  laughed  quite 
heartily  at  something  Guido  had  told  her.  But  somehow 
Hauser's  smile  did  not  seem  in  character.  She  had  pic 
tured  him  as  spending  his  evening  in  supine,  woe-begone, 
idle  desolation.  Instead  she  found  him  reading  his  paper 
and  smiling. 

Like  a  whirlwind  there  rushed  over  her  the  recollection 
of  his  accusation  or  insinuation  or  whatever  the  cruel  thing 
deserved  to  be  named  that  had  brought  about  their  rupture. 


422  THE  HYPHEN 

She  withdrew  her  hand  from  the  door-bell  and  walked 
away  furtively,  fearful  lest  some  passing  acquaintance 
recognize  her. 

"If  I  loved  him  less  I  might  forgive  him,"  she  told  herself. 

The  next  day  she  began  her  quest  for  an  apartment. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AND,  since  Vasalov  had  not  availed  himself  of  Dobronov's 
brilliant  idea  of  cross-assassination,  the  War  went 
on.  Vasalov  had  rejected  Dobronov's  suggestion  not  be 
cause  he  thought  the  scheme  hare-brained  or  ineffectual, 
but  because  he  believed  that  the  war  was  the  harbinger  of 
a  new  era  in  Russia  and  must  therefore  not  be  interfered 
with,  a  ruling  which  elicited  no  comment  whatever  from 
Dobronov  save  an  expression  of  personal  relief,  because, 
since  his  plan  was  rejected,  he  was  absolved  from  the 
grim  responsibility  of  having  consigned  to  death  a  dozen 
or  more  of  his  fellow-beings;  for,  as  he  said  naively  to 
Guido,  "After  all  kings  and  queens  are  human  beings." 

There  had  appeared  by  this  time  a  large  crop  of  books 
dealing  with  the  causes  and  origins  of  the  War,  which 
everybody  was  reading — Cramb,  Bernhardi,  Fernau;  and 
there  was  a  secondary  crop  of  authors  from  which  every 
body  was  quoting  without  having  read  them,  such  as 
Treitschke,  Nietzsche  and  Houston  Stewart  Chamberlain. 
The  pro-Germans  employed  their  usual  tempestuous  fury  in 
combating,  or  trying  to  combat,  the  arguments  provided 
by  these  authors  which  were  hostile  to  their  cause,  and  in 
doing  so  showed  the  same  lack  of  restraint,  of  decorum, 
of  propriety  which  was  marking  their  military  exploits, 
making  of  their  argumentation  an  orgy  of  linguistic  in 
temperance,  a  banquet  of  unreason,  an  outrage  upon  the 
body  of  logic  and  truth. 

Life  had  become  a  continual  round  of  bickering,  dissen 
sion  and  nervous  strain.  There  was  no  escaping  from  the 
War.  It  lapped  one  round.  It  fascinated,  hounded  and 
obsessed.  Stan,  it  is  true,  when  Guido  tried  to  talk  to 
him  about  the  War,  said,  easily:  "You  ought  to  read  less 
of  that  war  stuff,  Guy.  It's  getting  on  your  nerves.  After 
all  it's  a  European  mix-up  and  no  affair  of  ours.  Ameri 
cans  aren't  bothering  much  about  the  War." 

423 


424  THE  HYPHEN 

"Lots  of  them  are,  I  think,"  Guido  retorted.  "Seems  to 
me  I  have  heard  about  America- fed  Belgium  and  our 
ambulance  trains  and " 

"Sure  you  have,"  Stan  interrupted  him,  smiling.  "When 
ever  anything  happens  anywhere  it's  always  up  to  the 
U.  S.  A.  to  shell  out,  isn't  it?"  He  grinned  facetiously. 
"But  because  we  are  losing  our  money  is  no  reason  why 
we  should  lose  our  sanity  as  well.  Nix  on  the  War,  Guy. 
Forget  it." 

Guido  did  not  forget  it.  He  longed  for  Cecil.  He  missed 
Cecil  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  short  time  he  had  known 
him.  One  brief  note  he  had  from  the  English  lad  from 
a  training-camp  in  Canada — an  unsatisfactory  note  from 
the  human  point  of  view,  but  replete  with  the  vernacular 
of  the  soldier  and  with  details  of  the  grim  business  of 
soldiering.  Truth  to  tell  these  details  did  not  interest  Guido 
very  much.  He  was  too  much  preoccupied  with  the 
casuistry  of  the  War  to  give  heed  to  mere  military  ex 
ploits.  He  had  a  feeling,  shared,  in  the  early  stages  of  the 
War,  by  many  other  excellent  folks  older  than  himself, 
that  if  only  the  Germans  of  America  could  be  persuaded 
of  the  rottenness  of  their  cause,  and  experience  a  change 
of  heart,  the  German  armies  would  be  outmaneuvered  and 
outmarshaled  as  a  sort  of  corollary  to  the  moral  victory 
of  suasion. 

One  curious  phase  of  the  German-American  psychology 
was  their  deplorable  lack  of  logic  and  their  utter  incon 
sistency.  They  slew  reason  to  serve  German  partisanship 
and  prostituted  heart — the  much-prattled  of,  greatly  lauded 
German  heart — to  uses  incredibly  base. 

Their  favorite  method  of  meeting  and  refuting  the  hair- 
raising  news  from  Belgium  and  France  continued  to  be 
the  old  calumny:  English  lies.  When  news  came  so  pal 
pably,  indeliby  true  and  direct  that  this  fashion  of  dealing 
with  it  was  of  no  avail,  as,  for  instance,  the  shelling  by 
German  battleships  of  the  three  unimportant  English  coast- 
towns,  Hartlepool,  Whitby  and  Scarborough,  of  which  no 
one,  at  least  no  one  in  America  had  ever  heard,  no  means 
were  shunned  to  supply  a  plausible  justification.  "The 
English  would  do  the  same  if  they  could,"  was  one  sneer 
ing  comment  on  this  flagrant  violation  of  international  law, 
implying  that  the  wrecking  of  unfortified  towns  was  a 


YOUTH  425 

military  exploit  requiring  the  superior  efficiency  of  the 
German  navy!  "The  English  violate  international  law  in 
blockading  Germany,"  was  another  popular  rejoinder.  "Why 
does  America  always  find  fault  with  Germany  and  not  with 
England?" 

The  only  inference  to  be  drawn  from  the  latter  plea  was, 
of  course,  that  cold-blooded  murder  in  German  eyes  was  no 
more  reprehensible  than  a  technical  illegality.  Guido  told 
Otto  as  much  one  day  and,  for  a  full  ten  minutes,  turned 
his  friend  into  a  maniac. 

They  were  quarreling  continually  now-a-days — these  two 
old  friends.  Time  and  again  Guido  vowed  that  he  would 
never  set  foot  in  Otto's  house  again.  But  Otto  was  Otto. 
His  personality  remained  and  the  mysterious  vital  current 
that  reaches  out  from  one  personality  to  grasp  at  another 
remained  unimpaired  as  of  yore.  Guido  might  quarrel  with 
Otto,  might  hate  him,  might  objurgate  him,  might  fight  him 
even,  but  Otto,  nevertheless,  was  Otto,  and,  being  Otto,  had 
a  place  in  Guide's  scheme  of  things  which  no  other  friend 
might  ever  fill  or  usurp. 

Besides,  Otto  was  as  avid  of  war  discussion  as  Guido, 
and  Guido  relished  nothing  these  days  excepting  a  good 
long  talk  on  the  War.  The  War  with  its  issues  and  causes 
had  become  Guide's  chief  pastime.  It  filled  Iseiure  mo 
ments,  it  sat  with  him  at  meals,  it  went  to  bed  with  him 
and  dominated  his  dreams  as  it  inhabited  his  waking  his 
hours.  His  mind  was  like  the  newspapers — one  wondered 
what  had  formerly  occupied  the  space  now  given  over  to 
the  exigencies  of  the  War. 

Frau  Ursula,  meanwhile,  was  trying  to  find  an  apartment 
for  herself  and  Guido.  She  was  somewhat  undecided  as 
between  an  apartment  or  a  house.  But  to  furnish  and 
equip  a  house  was  an  undertaking  from  which  she  shrank 
in  view  of  the  scarcity  and  universal  undependability  of 
servants.  The  four  excellent  servants  of  the  Hauser  estab 
lishment  had  been  persuaded  by  her  to  remain  with  her 
husband.  There  was  the  Bohemian  cook,  a  true  genius 
of  the  kitchen,  worthy  of  the  cordon  bleu,  and  the  house 
maid  or  second  girl,  as  the  Anasquoitians  term  this  variety 
of  maid,  the  laundress  who  also  waited  on  table  and  washed 
dishes  and  silver,  and  the  man  of  all  work,  who  cleaned 
the  windows  and  trimmed  the  hedge  in  summer  and  shoveled 


426  THE  HYPHEN 

the  snow  in  winter.  In  addition  there  was  the  chauffeur, 
a  well-bred  fellow,  whom  neither  Hauser  nor  herself  re 
garded  precisely  as  a  servant.  There  had  been  a  Grand 
Council  of  War  in  the  Hauser  kitchen  on  the  fateful 
Monday  when  Frau  Ursula  had  left  her  husband's  bed  and 
board.  Opinion  was  hopelessly  divided.  The  cook  was 
for  staying  with  the  master,  since  the  mistress  desired  it, 
adding  that  she  was  sure  the  Herrin  would  be  back  before 
long  and  would  like  to  find  the  household  intact.  The 
housemaid,  a  pert,  grasping  Berlin  girl,  with  coarse  red 
arms,  said  she  didn't  believe  in  staying  in  the  house  with  a 
divorced  or  a  "separated"  man.  She  feared  for  her  good 
name.  The  laundress,  an  Irish-American  girl,  who  was  a 
widow  with  a  child  to  support,  said  she'd  risk  her  reputa 
tion  all  right,  but  she  was  afraid  the  job  would  leave  her. 
The  man  of  all  work,  a  poor  derelict  whom  Hauser  had 
picked  off  the  street  one  bitter  cold  night,  was  for  staying 
with  the  master.  The  majority  finally  prevailed,  and  the 
four  servants  remained  in  the  handsome  big  mansion  to 
wait  upon  the  sole  remaining  member  of  the  family. 

Frau  Ursula  filed  her  name  with  the  two  principal  real 
estate  agencies  of  Anasquoit  and  waited.  She  was  neither 
comfortable  nor  uncomfortable  at  the  hotel.  She  was  not 
in  a  frame  of  mind  to  be  either.  Her  sensory  system  was 
in  a  state  approximating  suspended  animation.  During  the 
first  fortnight  after  leaving  Hauser  she  was  harrowed  by 
a  fear  which  was  half  a  hope.  If  that  uncertainty  should 
transform  itself  into  an  expectancy,  there  was,  she  told 
herself,  only  one  course  to  pursue.  She  would  write 
Hauser,  asking  him  to  come  to  her,  and  she  would  then 
show  him  all  the  available  documents  concerning  Guide's 
birth,  and  acquaint  him  with  her  true  motive  in  assuming 
charge  of  the  boy. 

The  expectation,  however,  which  would  have  achieved 
a  reconciliation,  did  not  eventualize.  Frau  Ursula  wept 
for  a  day  and  a  night,  and  then  set  definitely  about  the 
task  of  finding  a  home  for  herself  and  her  son. 

She  was  ably  seconded  by  Mrs.  Erdman.  The  erstwhile 
widow  of  a  relative  of  a  Signer  had  a  very  much  more 
definite  idea  of  what  Frau  Ursula  wanted  than  Frau  Ursula 
had  herself.  She  located  a  very  charming  apartment  in 
a  two-story  house  on  upper  Bismarck  Street,  near  Fern- 


YOUTH  427 

wood  Street,  which  was  to  fall  vacant  on  the  first  of  the 
year.  Frau  Ursula  demurred.  Since  she,  Mrs.  Erdman, 
had  her  heart  set  on  an  apartment  for  Frau  Ursula,  she, 
Frau  Ursula,  must  at  least  insist  on  a  real  apartment  in 
stead  of  the  upper  floor  of  a  two-story  house.  Thus  quoth 
the  usually  urbane  Ursula.  Mrs.  Erdman  ignored  her 
friend's  little  outburst  of  temper,  and  urged  the  advantages 
of  the  apartment  she  had  in  mind.  Frau  Ursula,  with 
considerable  acerbity,  repeated  that  she  would  never  con 
sider  a  flat  in  a  two-story  house.  If  a  flat  it  was  to  be — 
what  earthly  sense  in  dignifying  a  miserable  fifty  or  sixty- 
dollar  flat  by  the  name  of  apartment — she  must  at  least  have 
a  real  flat  with  pulleys  and  pulley-pole  and  a  dumb-waiter 
and  a  janitor  to  take  off  the  garbage  and  look  after  the 
steam-heat  and  hot-water  plant.  Most  particularly  was  a 
pulley  indispensable.  Without  a  pulley,  the  clothes  had 
to  be  dried  in  the  yard.  That  meant  that  the  clothes-lines 
were  at  your  disposal  only  one  day  a  week.  Say  it  rained 
on  Monday.  You  couldn't  shift  your  day's  washing  to 
Tuesday  because  the  other  family  was  entitled  to  the  use 
of  the  yard  on  Tuesday.  Say  it  rained  again  on  Wednes 
day.  You  would  be  reduced  to  the  ignominious  strait  of 
washing  on  a  Thursday,  leaving  the  ironing  for  Friday. 
And  Friday  was  cleaning  day  so  that  the  ironing  would 
have  to  be  left  over  for  Saturday.  No,  thank  you.  A 
flat  in  a  two- family  house  without  a  pulley-pole  was  not 
to  be  thought  of. 

Mrs.  Erdman  had  never  seen  Frau  Ursula  so  crochety 
before.  She  listened  indulgently  and  registered  Frau 
Ursula's  objections  on  the  fingers  of  her  left  hand,  and 
then  eliminated  them.  There  was  no  pulley,  it  was  true, 
but  there  was  a  lovely  patent  clothes-dryer  in  the  yard — 
one  of  the  circular  ones  like  an  inverted  umbrella — and  as 
the  occupant  of  the  first  floor,  who  was  also  the  landlord, 
sent  his  laundry  out,  the  circular  dryer  in  the  yard  was 
at  Frau  Ursula's  disposal  every  day  in  the  week.  There 
was  a  dumb-waiter.  There  was  a  garbage  shoot.  There 
was  an  ash-shoot,  and  the  landlord,  on  hearing  for  whom 
Mrs.  Erdman  was  inspecting  the  rooms,  had  gallantly 
offered  to  attend  to  Frau  Ursula's  furnace  along  with  his 
own. 


428  THE  HYPHEN 

"Why  should  he  offer  to  do  such  a  thing?"  Frau  Ursula 
demanded,  hostile  and  suspicious. 

"He  said  he  had  always  admired  you  immensely,"  said 
Mrs.  Erdman,  "or,  rather,  he  allowed  me  to  infer  that  he 
admires  you  from  the  way  he  talked  about  you." 

The  compliment  did  its  subtle  work,  as  Mrs.  Erdman  had 
intended  it  should.  A  woman  must  be  very  far  gone  indeed 
in  health  and  spirits  before  losing  her  feminine  zest  in 
a  compliment. 

"I  might  look  at  the  flat,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  tentatively. 

Guide's  entrance  put  a  stop  to  the  discussion.  He  came 
forward,  beaming  with  pleasure  at  seeing  "Mrs.  Thorn 
ton,"  and  bending,  kissed  her  cheek  as  if  he  were  still  a 
child.  Mrs.  Erdman  patted  his  cheek  affectionately  in 
return.  The  little  demonstration  was  never  omitted  be 
tween  these  two  excepting  when  they  met  in  public. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Erdman,  "I  hear  you  have  a  new 
first  name  as  well  as  a  new  surname — Guy  von  Estritz — 
no  longer  Guide  Hauser." 

"Stan  started  that  Guy  business  over  a  year  ago,"  Guido 
said.  "And  now  the  boys  think  it  great  sport  that  I  should 
have  a  double  set  of  names." 

"And  you  also  have  a  destiny,  I  hear,"  said  Mrs.  Erd 
man,  a  little  wickedly,  for  she  knew  from  Frau  Ursula 
that  he  hated  to  have  mention  made  of  it. 

Guide's  face  darkened. 

"Well,  the  boys  don't  know  anything  about  that,  thank 
goodness,"  he  said,  fervently.  "Lordy  Lord,  how  they 
would  guy  me !" 

"And  what  do  you  intend  to  do  with  your  destiny?" 
Mrs.  Erdman  pursued. 

"Lose  it,"  said  Guido,  succinctly. 

Frau  Ursula  was  annoyed  and  showed  it.  As  we  know 
she  had  looked  upon  the  Synthesis  for  a  long  time  as  a  sort 
of  black  charm,  but  her  maternal  pride,  ably  stimulated 
by  Dr.  Koenig,  had  been  so  flattered  by  the  thought  of 
an  especially  waiting  destiny  for  her  boy  that  she  had 
gradually  been  weaned  away  from  her  dislike  and  fear  of 
the  Experiment. 

Besides,  the  Synthesis  had  been  a  cause  of  fruitful  suf 
fering  to  her.  To  have  Guido  treat  it  with  such  scant 
courtesy  wounded  her. 


YOUTH  429 

She  said  nothing,  but  her  looks  spoke  volumes. 

"You  see,"  said  Guido,  "if  the  Vasalovs  think  I  am  going 
to  follow  in  their  footsteps  and  go  about  scattering  bombs 
in  the  vicinity  of  folks  I  don't  like,  they  are  making  the 
mistake  of  their  lives." 

Frau  Ursula  became  indignantly  excited. 

"Guido,"  she  said,  "I  desire,  I  honestly  desire  that  you 
employ  a  certain  decency  of  language  in  referring  to  your 
mother,  even  if  you  are  not  able  to  feel  a  little  kindness 
for  her.  I  hope  I  will  not  have  to  speak  of  this  again." 

Guido  laughed  bitterly. 

"You  are  wasting  your  breath,"  he  said.  "I'll  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  Russian  woman  or  her  pursuits." 

"What  has  Dobronov  been  about!"  Frau  Ursula  ex 
claimed.  "Has  he  given  you  no  insight  at  all  into  the 
conditions  of  Russian  life?"  Frau  Ursula  prided  herself 
upon  her  generosity  in  referring,  with  such  signal  mag 
nanimity,  to  a  cause  and  a  woman  which  were  alike  anathema 
to  her. 

"Dobronov  ?  All  Dob  cares  about  is  his  soul  and  Russia's 
holy  mission.  Mrs.  Erdman,  you  should  hear  Dob  on  the 
War.  By  the  way,  how  does  the  Doc  feel  about  the  War  ?" 

Mrs.  Erdman  assumed  a  gloomy  look — or  was  assailed 
by  it. 

"Dr.  Erdman  is  of  course  a  hopeless  pro,"  she  said. 

"Apparently  you  are  not,"  said  Guido. 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Frau  Ursula.  "Guido,  what  a  thing 
to  say." 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Erdman,  a  little  senten- 
tiously,  "I  am  not  as  ardently  pro-Ally  as  might  be  sup 
posed.  The  truth  is  since  coming  to  live  here  among  you 
I  have  made  so  many  dear  friends,  all  of  them  German, 
that  it  is  hard  to  credit  these  Belgian  atrocity  stories." 

"How  about  dropping  bombs  from  Zeps  on  sleepy  little 
towns,  or  bombarding  them  with  long-range  guns  from 
cruisers  and  men  of  war?"  Guido  demanded. 

"I  have  heard  Germans  claim  that  an  exhibition  of  their 
capacity  for  inflicting  injury  might  bring  about  a  speedy 
termination  of  the  War,"  Mrs.  Erdman  replied,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation. 

"In  brief — Schrecklichkeit,"  said  Guido.     "A  desire  to 


430  THE  HYPHEN 

terrorize,  to  intimidate,  to  paralyze  with  fear — that's  the 
charge  that  is  being  made,  you  know." 

"There  are  so  many  charges  being  made,"  said  Mrs. 
Erdman.  "The  very  causes  of  the  War  remain  obscure 
and  unexplained." 

"Personally,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  "I  do  not  comprehend 
how  anyone,  having  lived  in  Germany  and  America,  can 
prefer  the  Fatherland.  But  if  they  do,  why  do  they  re 
main  here?" 

"Because  they  make  a  better  living  here,"  said  Guido, 
contemptuously. 

"I  should  hate  to  think  as  ill  as  all  that  of  my  com 
patriots,"  said  Frau  Ursula,  gently. 

"I  dare  say  Guido  is  right,"  said  Mrs.  Erdman.  "And, 
after  all,  it's  not  as  if  the  Germans  who  come  here  found 
in  America  a  homogeneous  population  into  which  they 
refuse  to  be  absorbed.  They  find,  on  coming  here,  com 
munity  within  community  of  French,  Irish,  Walloons, 
Spaniards.  Each  of  these  nationalities  foregathers,  is 
clannish,  exclusive,  and  resists  amalgamation.  Why,  then, 
should  the  Germans  alone  divest  themselves  of  all  feelings 
of  race,  legitimate  as  well  as  prejudicial  ?  It's  asking  rather 
much  of  human  nature,  isn't  it?" 

"The  Germans  have  an  able  apologist  in  you,"  said  Guido. 

"I'm  trying  to  be  fair,"  said  Mrs.  Erdman,  with  her 
sweet  smile.  "I  am  trying  to  get  their  viewpoint." 

"Their  viewpoint,"  said  Guido,  "is  race  prejudice.  It's 
race  prejudice  and  envy  that  have  made  this  war.  Every 
thing  German  is  good.  Everything  not  German  is  abomin 
able  and  there  is  no  health  in  it." 

"Not  so,"  said  Mrs.  Erdman.  "They  do  not  think  every 
thing  German  is  right  because  it  is  German,  but,  because, 
being  German,  they  think  it  is  right.  There  is  a  vast  dif 
ference." 

Frau  Ursula  looked  a  little  startled.  Guido  lolled  back 
more  comfortably  in  his  chair  and  stretched  out  his  hand 
some  legs  to  aid  mental  travail. 

"I  think  I  understand,"  he  said,  "it's  not  race  prejudice 
the  world  is  dealing  with  so  much  as  unconscious  race 
unanimity  ?" 

Mrs.  Erdman  nodded. 

"That's  it,"  she  said. 


YOUTH  431 

"It  would  make  the  whole  business  infinitely  more  for 
midable,"  Guido  hazarded. 

"Infinitely." 

"And  infinitely  more  of  a  menace." 

"Infinitely." 

"You  know,  that's  rather  a  deep  thought  of  yours." 

"I've  arrived  at  it  in  the  simplest  way  imaginable.  By 
observation — sympathetic  observation,"  said  Mrs.  Erdman. 
"Morning  after  morning  I  heard  my  husband  comment 
on  the  news  while  reading  it.  Day  after  day,  when  I 
went  out  to  do  my  marketing,  I  heard  practically  the  same 
comments  made  by  other  German-Americans.  The  com 
ments  were  made  simultaneously,  so  that  a  conspiracy  for 
the  circulation  of  orthodox  German  comment  was  excluded. 
It's  the  same  with  Americans.  Let  any  two  Americans, 
'real'  Americans,  Guido,  read  the  war  news  and  their  com 
ments  will  agree  in  fundamentals.  No  one  needs  to  furnish 
them  with  ready-made  condemnation  of  Germany.  It 
springs  spontaneously  to  the  lips." 

"The  Germans  claim  that  is  so  because  our  American 
newspapers  color  the  news,"  Guido  remarked. 

"And  do  not  the  German  newspapers  color  their  news? 
At  any  rate,  I  do  not  think  that  that  proves  anything.  I 
know  it  doesn't  as  far  as  Doctor  Erdman  is  concerned. 
He  reads  'The  Sun.'  He  cannot  read  German,  you  know. 
He  was  brought  up  in  the  Middle  West,  where  Deutsch- 
Amerikanische  Realschulen  are  an  unknown  quantity. 
Nor  has  he  ever  been  in  Germany.  Nor  does  he  belong 
to  any  German-American  society,  club,  association  or 
Verein.  He  is,  to  all  intents,  as  thoroughly  an  American 
as  myself." 

"And  yet "  said  Guido. 

"And  yet "  Mrs.  Erdman  agreed.  "So  you  see, 

Guido,  I  dare  not  allow  my  indignation  against  Germany 
to  mount  too  high.  I  do  not  wish  to  quarrel  with  Frank. 
A  self-respecting  woman  cannot  quarrel  with  her  husband 
and  remain  with  him.  I  love  Frank  more  than  my  own 
life.  I  know  him  to  be  the  soul  of  honor.  I  have  never 
known  him  to  do  an  unkind  thing.  So  I  content  my  soul 
in  patience,  hoping  that  the  evil  obsession  will  pass  when, 
at  some  not  too  distant  day,  the  Germans  do  some  par 
ticularly  wicked  thing." 


432  THE  HYPHEN 

"Seems  to  me  they  have  gone  the  limit  even  now,"  said 
Guido. 

Mrs.  Erdman  sighed  deeply. 

"I  suppose  they  have,"  she  said.  "Good-bye,  my  dear 
friend."  She  kissed  Frau  Ursula.  "I  must  go.  To  cook 
dinner  for  my  pro-German  husband." 

Mrs.  Erdman  began  collecting  her  parcels  and  packages. 
There  were  a  good  many  of  them,  for  she  had  been  shop 
ping  at  the  Five  and  Ten  and  at  several  all-package  stores, 
and  Guido  offered  to  help  her  carry  her  belongings  home. 

He  slipped  downstairs  ahead  of  her  and  ordered  a  taxi, 
an  act  prompted  not  entirely  by  unselfish  thoughts  of  the 
lady's  comfort.  Guido  was  at  the  age  when  the  carrying 
of  paper  bags  and  parcels,  of  anything,  in  fact,  excepting 
a  handsome  leather  bag,  represents  a  lamentable  lowering 
of  human  dignity — something  like  going  to  live  in  the 
slums,  from  necessity,  not  from  humanitarian  benevolence, 
which  latter  cause,  of  course,  would  surround  even  the 
slums  with  the  pink  halo  of  romance. 

Guido,  at  seventeen,  was  not  a  saint. 

He  wondered  vaguely  that  Dr.  Erdman,  with  his  growing 
practice,  should  allow  his  wife  to  practice  such  petty  and 
degrading  economies,  as  were  represented  by  the  bakers' 
dozen  of  parcels  and  bags  with  which  he,  Guido,  was  now 
loaded  down.  Dr.  Erdman's  wife  might  have  furnished 
the  key  to  the  riddle.  Half  of  Dr.  Erdman's  patients  were 
free  patients,  in  fact,  he  showed  a  marked  preference  for 
poor  patients  whom  he  not  only  treated  free  of  charge  but, 
more  often  than  not,  supplied  with  medicine  for  which  he 
paid  the  druggist  out  of  his  own  pocket.  He  was,  as  his 
wife  had  said,  the  soul  of  honor  and  kindness. 

Ensconced  in  the  taxi,  Mrs.  Erdman  said: 

"Guido,  I  am  glad  of  this  opportunity  to  speak  to  you 
alone.  I've  tried  to  get  my  bearings  from  your  mother, 
but  have  failed.  Doesn't  she  regret  having  left  Mr. 
Hauser?  She  strikes  me  as  not  happy." 

"Why  should  she  be  unhappy?"  Guido  inquired,  with 
the  callousness  of  youth. 

"My  dear  boy,  she  loved  your  father — I  mean,  Mr. 
Hauser.  She  loved  him  dearly.  I  feel  that  something 
more  occurred  than  she  told  me.  I  do  not  want  to  know 
what.  I  do  want  to  know  whether  a  reconciliation  is  out 


YOUTH  433 

of  the  question.  I'm  an  old  friend.  I  could  approach 
Mr.  Hauser  tactfully." 

"I  should  hate  to  see  my  mother  reconciled  to  that  man," 
Guido  retorted. 

Mrs.  Erdman  suppressed  the  obvious  retort.  She 
schooled  herself  to  gentleness  before  saying: 

"Guido,  I  am  going  to  presume  on  our  old  and  intimate 
friendship  to  say  some  very  personal  things  to  you." 

"Say  what  you  like!"  Guido  accorded  the  desired  per 
mission  with  sultan-like  assurance  that  whatever  was  to 
say,  since  it  involved  himself,  could  not  possibly  be  of 
an  unpleasant  nature. 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Erdman,  "that  in  this  matter  of 
a  reconciliation  you  should  consider  your  mother  only, 
and  not  yourself." 

This  seemed  rather  a  tame  beginning  to  the  young  man 
after  Mrs.  Erdman's  moving  preamble.  Suddenly,  how 
ever,  the  implication  struck  him,  and  he  said,  a  little  un 
certainly  : 

"If  my  mother  desires  a  reconciliation,  I  would  not  in 
fluence  her  against  it,  of  course.  But  I'd  hate  to  see  her 
and  Mr.  Hauser  make  it  up.  I  know  it  sounds  beastly, 
seeing  I  believed  him  to  be  my  father  until  a  month  ago, 
but  my  mother  always  seemed  to  me  very  far  above  him." 

"That  is  not  the  question,"  said  Mrs.  Erdman.  "The 
average  woman  is  superior  to  her  husband  for  the  simple 
reason  that  the  spiritual  standard  is  higher  among  women 
than  among  men.  Besides,  Mr.  Hauser  is  by  no  means  an 
inferior  man.  He  treated  you  very  badly  when  you  were 
a  child,  and  you  bear  him  a.,  grudge  accordingly,  as  is 
natural.  When  you  are  a  little  older  you  will  understand 
what  I  mean  when  I  say  that  he  is  not  really  a  bad  sort. 
The  point  is — is  a  reconciliation  feasible,  and,  does  your 
mother  desire  it?" 

"Supposing  it  were  and  supposing  she  did,"  Guido  re 
sponded  with  considerable  animation,  "you  would  hardly 
expect  my  mother  to  suggest  it  to  him,  would  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Erdman  did  not  reply,  and  Guido,  after  studying 
her  expressive  face  for  a  moment,  said,  contritely: 

"I  suppose  you  think  me  abominably  selfish." 

"If  you  are,  it's  a  fault  you  share  with  the  majority  of 
your  fellow-creatures." 


434  THE  HYPHEN 

Guide  reddened. 

"But  you  would  like  to  see  me  free  from  the  common 

fault?" 

"Naturally.    I  have  been  so  awfully  fond  of  you/' 

"'Have  been?'" 

"Am  still,  of  course,  silly  boy.  You  came  into  my  life 
when — well,  we  won't  go  into  that  now.  Suffice  it  to 
say  I  love  you,  my  dear  lad,  as  if  you  were  a  younger 
brother.  And  because  I  do,  I  venture  to  speak  to  you  as 
I  am  doing.  You  must  never  do  anything  to  hurt  your 
mother." 

"I  never  intend  to,"  said  Guido,  a  little  nettled. 

"What  I  am  trying  to  get  at,"  Mrs.  Erdman  continued, 
"is  this :  Did  your  mother  leave  Mr.  Hauser  only  because, 
in  a  burst  of  rage,  he  told  you  prematurely  that  your  mother 
is  not  your  real  mother?" 

"But  he  did  not  tell  me  that,"  Guido  retorted  in  surprise. 
"He  told  me  that  I  was  not  his  son.  So  if  my  mother 
had  not  wished  to  tell  me  about  the  Russian  woman  and 
all  that  farrago  of  nonsense  about  the  Synthesis  and  my 
destiny,  she  need  not  have  done  so.  She  might  have  in 
vented  a  first  marriage  to  account  for  me.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  she  was  married  before  she  met  Mr.  Hauser." 

Mrs.  Erdman  sat  as  if  transfixed.  A  great  light  had 
burst  on  her.  She  had  witnessed  some  bitterly  cruel 
scenes  between  husband  and  wife  in  the  days  when  she 
had  made  one  of  the  Hauser  household.  She  had  enjoyed 
the  partial  confidence  of  the  wife.  She  knew  that  a  new 
and  violent  estrangement  had  occurred  after  Vasalov's 
first  visit  to  the  Hauser  home.  She  more  than  suspected 
at  the  time  just  what  had  happened  between  Hauser  and 
Frau  Ursula.  All  women  are  shrewd  in  reading  between 
the  lines  in  matters  of  love. 

She  comprehended  suddenly  what  had  put  the  stricken 
doe  look  into  Frau  Ursula's  sweet  eyes. 

"The  scoundrel,"  she  murmured,  "the  scoundrel." 

Guido  caught  the  word  above  the  rattling  of  the  taxi, 
but  it  seemed  much  too  violent  a  word  for  the  context  of 
fact.  He  thought  that  he  had  misunderstood  Mrs.  Erd 
man,  and  asked  her  to  repeat  what  she  had  said.  Instead 
of  doing  so,  she  said,  coldly: 

"I  realize  there  is  nothing  to  be  done.    I  confess  I  was 


YOUTH  435 

hankering  to  play  the  role  of  peace-maker.  But  it's  of 
no  use " 

"You  see,"  said  Guido,  with  the  Jove-like  insouciance  of 
youth,  "Mother  left  our  old  home  just  because  she  wanted 
to.  He  gave  her  an  excuse  and  she  was  glad  of  it,  I  sup 
pose.  They  really  did  not  pull  very  well  together." 

So  soon  had  the  boy  forgotten  the  pangs  of  jealousy 
which  Frau  Ursula's  preoccupation  with  her  husband  had 
caused  him  throughout  the  autumn  months. 

The  taxi  stopped  in  front  of  the  Erdman  apartment. 
Guido  paid  the  chauffeur,  and  then  possessed  himself  of 
such  bundles  as  Mrs.  Erdman  had  not  yet  gathered  together. 

As  he  turned  to  carry  them  into  the  house,  he  saw  Erna 
Friedman  and  Lieschen  Schlick  approaching.  They 
smiled  the  malicious,  sly,  amused  smile  which  he  remem 
bered  as  one  of  the  chief  exasperations  and  trials  of  his 
school-days.  He  tried  to  shift  his  parcels  so  as  to  dis 
engage  one  hand.  Several  parcels  slipped  through  his 
fingers  during  the  process  of  transfer.  He  tried  to  catch 
them,  but  his  fingers  had  all  turned  to  thumbs,  and  instead 
of  salvaging  the  runaways  he  increased  their  number  by 
spilling  some  clothes-pins  from  an  improperly  fastened  bag. 
The  clothes-pins  played  a  tattoo  upon  the  sidewalk  and 
increased  his  agony.  He  had  not  succeeded  in  lifting  his 
hat  before  the  two  girls  had  passed  him.  Erna  looked 
back  over  her  shoulder,  laughed  and  said  maliciously: 

"Has  Guy  von  Estritz  turned  errand  boy  for  the  Hauser 
establishment  ?" 

Guido  was  furious.  He  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 
Mortified  beyond  endurance  he  dumped  the  parcels,  none 
too  gallantly,  into  Mrs.  Erdman's  arms  and  made  off  after 
a  rapidly  muttered  "Good-bye."  Mrs.  Erdman  thought  that 
he  intended  to  follow  the  two  girls  and  smiled  as  adults 
smile  at  the  eccentricities  of  calf  love. 

Guido,  needless  to  say,  walked  off  in  a  direction  opposite 
from  that  taken  by  his  former  class-mates.  His  wrath 
abated  speedily.  It  was  skin-deep  only. 

He  wanted  to  reflect  on  all  that  Mrs.  Erdman  had  said 
about  the  war  and  about  the  pro-German  attitude.  He  was 
not  nearly  as  much  interested  in  the  case  of  Hauser  versus 
Hauser  as  in  the  case  of  Humanity  versus  Germany.  Yet 
her  remarks  touching  his  mother  lingered  in  his  mind. 


436  THE  HYPHEN 

Women  were  so  odd,  even  the  best  of  them!  With  all 
due  respect  for  Mrs.  Erdman,  whom  he  genuinely  loved, 
she  certainly  had  enjoyed  talking  over  the  separation.  Now 
his  mother  was  different.  She  did  a  thing  and  she  was 
done  with  it.  He  didn't  believe  that  there  was  any  ulterior 
reason  at  all  for  leaving  Hauser.  He  remembered  fre 
quently  wondering  as  a  child  why  in  heaven's  name  his 
mother  had  married  her  husband.  The  old  wonder  re 
turned,  and  added  to  it  was  a  new  wonder  that  she  had  stood 
him  so  long1.  It  appears  from  this  that  there  had  been 
more  than  one  hiatus  in  the  story  which  Frau  Ursula  had 
told  Guide. 

Anyhow,  he  didn't  want  to  think  about  his  mother's 
husband.  He  wanted  to  think  about  the  War.  But,  in 
obedience  to  Mrs.  Erdman's  suggestion,  his  thoughts 
snapped  back  to  his  mother  and  to  Hauser.  He  felt  it 
incumbent  to  dwell  upon  his  family  affairs  instead  of  upon 
the  War  for  a  little  while.  He  compromised  with  his 
conscience.  He  would  think  about  the  Hauser  affair  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  daily  so  that  he  might  devote  the  rest 
of  his  leisure  time  to  the  thing  which  was  absorbing  him 
body  and  soul. 

Elschen  Marlow,  standing  at  the  Parsonage  gate,  made 
a  welcome  diversion.  The  two  young  people  had  not  seen 
much  of  each  other  recently,  and  she  commented  upon  the 
great  change. 

"So  you  have  changed  your  name,"  she  said,  in  her 
straightforward,  prim,  demure  way. 

"Yes,"  he  cried,  gayly,  for  Elschen  always  made  him 
feel  light-hearted  and  irresponsible.  "I've  done  what  is 
usually  considered  a  woman's  prerogative.  I've  stolen  a 
march  on  the  girls." 

Elschen  blushed.  It  was  a  very  delicate  blush,  gentle 
and  refined  as  she  whose  cheeks  it  graced.  She  blushed 
rarely,  and  Guido  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  To  cover 
his  surprise,  he  said,  thoughtlessly: 

"Some  day,  Elschen,  you  will  be  changing  yours." 

Light  words,  lightly  spoken.  The  girl  hugged  them  to 
her  heart,  and  read  into  them  hidden  meanings,  clandestine 
hopes,  tentative  promises  and  a  golden  future. 

Such  is  the  stuff  that  heart-aches  and  heart-breaks  are 
made  of. 


YOUTH  437 

Guido,  having  unconsciously  implanted  the  seed  of  dis 
appointment  in  love  in  the  young  girl's  heart,  walked 
rapidly  home  to  the  hotel,  blissfully  unaware  of  the  mis 
chief  he  had  wrought.  In  speaking  to  Elschen  he  in 
variably  assumed  a  different  tone  than  he  employed  toward 
any  of  the  other  girls  of  his  acquaintance.  He  was  gentler, 
more  playful  and  more  gallant.  There  was  something  in 
her,  some  daintiness,  some  aloofness  from  life  that  ap 
pealed  to  his  tenderness.  And  always  she  aroused  a  wish 
in  him  to  carry  her  off  home  with  him  as  a  sister.  He 
felt  that  it  would  have  been  pleasant  to  see  her  at  his 
mother's  side,  employed  on  one  of  the  interminable  pieces 
of  embroidery  with  which  she  was  forever  busy.  It  is 
to  be  feared  that  he  considered  her  purely  in  a  decorative, 
not  a  human  light.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  Elschen 
might  misconstrue  his  sallies  of  gentle  raillery,  or  that  she 
might  care  for  him.  Also  he  was  entirely  innocent  of  a 
selfish  desire  for  easy  conquest.  Conceit  was  not  among 
the  faults  which  were  depriving  him  of  a  place  in  the 
Hall  of  Saints. 

He  was  very  attentive  and  dear  to  his  mother  all  through 
supper.  He  always  waited  upon  her  hand  and  foot,  and 
usually  smothered  her  in  kisses  at  least  thrice  a  day.  But 
to-day,  in  addition  to  his  usual  blandishments,  he  drew 
her  out,  spoke  on  subjects  other  than  the  War,  subjects 
dear  to  the  feminine  heart  such  as  the  price  of  breadboxes 
and  curtain  poles.  And,  what  was  more,  he  really  listened 
to  what  Ms  mother  had  to  say.  He  remembered  that 
Hauser  had  always  evinced  a  genuine  interest  in  all  these 
household  innovations,  and  this  had  left  himself  blissfully 
at  liberty  to  be  preoccupied  with  his  own  affairs  and 
uninterested  in  the  affairs  of  others.  He  suddenly  con 
ceived  a  better  opinion  of  Hauser,  and  saw  himself  in  a 
sorry  light,  a  light  really  much  more  unflattering  than 
he  deserved.  For  youth  is  both  gauche  and  callow.  Both 
tendencies  inhere  in  youth,  and  it  is  only  when  these  trends 
harden  into  habits  as  youth  passes  on  to  maturity,  that 
they  may  be  said  to  have  graduated  as  full-fledged  faults. 
Guido  was  not  obtuse,  nor  selfish,  nor  shallow.  He  had 
the  necessary  kindness,  intelligence  and  breadth  to  correct 
his  own  moral  angularities. 

He  perceived  that  his  mother  was  going  to  derive  a  good 


438  THE  HYPHEN 

deal  of  satisfaction  from  purchasing  furniture  and  carpets 
and  linen  and  planning  the  entire  equipment  of  their  new 
home.  But  what  after  the  excitement  had  died  away  ? 
Would  her  new  home  seem  an  empty  shell  to  her?  To 
such  reflections  had  he  been  quickened  by  Mrs.  Erdman's 
intervention.  While  his  mother  was  telling  him  of  a  host 
of  little  inconsequential  details,  he  was  rehearsing  all  she 
had  done  for  him  in  the  past,  the  marvelously  tender  love 
and  forbearance  he  had  had  from  her  always.  An  enor 
mous  wave  of  tenderness  swept  over  him. 

"Mother!"  He  touched  her  hand  surreptitiously  while 
the  waiter's  back  was  turned,  as  if  they  had  been  sweet 
hearts  instead  of  mother  and  son. 

"What  is  it,  mein  Herz?" 

"Mother,  you're  the  saintliest  woman !  When  I  remember 
all  you  have  done  for  me!  Mutterchen,  liebes,  einziges 
Mutterchen,  I  can  never  hope  to  make  it  up  to  you,  but 
I  love  you,  I  love  you  a  hundred  times  more  than  if  you 
were  my  own  mother.  If  one  could  pick  one's  mother 
the  way  one  choses  one's  wife  I  would  have  picked  you." 

The  spontaneity  with  which  the  lad  spoke,  his  high  sin 
cerity  brought  a  glow  of  ineffable  joy  to  her  eyes.  The 
stricken  doe  look  faded  from  it.  He  saw  that  he  had  made 
her  superlatively  happy,  and  was  abashed  and  humbled  and 
proud  all  in  one  that  such  power  should  reside  in  him. 

Later  that  evening,  after  he  had  prepared  his  home-work 
for  the  next  day,  the  War  claimed  him.  It  tugged  at  his 
heart-strings,  it  plucked  greedily  at  his  mind,  it  cried 
loudly  for  a  hearing,  for  utterance,  for  discussion,  for  a 
brace  of  tongues. 

"I'm  going  for  a  walk,"  he  announced,  buttoning  himself 
into  a  long  coat.  "My  head  is  on  fire." 

"Are  you  going  anywhere  in  particular?" 

"No,  it's  too  late  for  calls.  It's  past  bed-time.  Besides, 
I  want  the  exercise  and  the  air." 

They  kissed. 

"Guido." 

A  look  of  tender  regard  in  her  eyes  made  him  unbutton 
his  coat  as  a  preliminary  to  dropping  upon  his  knees. 

"Mutterchen,  what  is  it?" 

"My  son,  I  am  expecting  great  things  of  you — do  not 
disappoint  me." 


YOUTH  439 

Was  she  thinking  of  the  wretched  Synthesis?  He  re 
membered  Mrs.  Erdman's  expostulation,  and  choked  back 
his  angry  retort. 

Alone  at  last,  outdoors,  he  cut  quickly  away  from  the 
smug  respectability  of  Bismarck  Street  and  the  more  fre 
quented  thoroughfares  of  the  town.  He  had  latterly  taken 
to  walking  at  night  in  the  poorer  streets,  where  his  martial 
meditations  were  fairly  secure  from  interruptions.  He 
did  not  wish  to  meet  anyone  he  knew.  He  did  not  wish 
to  talk  or  to  argue.  Least  of  all  about  the  War.  He 
wanted  to  walk  and  to  think  about  the  War  as  faithfully 
and  as  efficiently  as  he  might. 

The  night  was  murky  and  bleak,  the  town  shrouded  itl 
one  of  the  semi-translucent  mists  which  linger  in  the 
streets  of  New  York  and  vicinity  on  some  nights  in  Novem 
ber  and  December.  Guido  was  very  sensitive  to  at 
mospheric  conditions.  He  gloried  in  fog  and  mist  and 
rain.  He  loved  the  sunshine  too,  but  the  sunshiny  day 
was  like  a  major  scale,  its  smiling  contentment  and  boister 
ous  good-nature  excited  without  satisfying,  stimulated 
without  probing  beneath  the  surface.  But  these  slate- 
colored,  low-toned,  low-pitched  days  and  nights  when  the 
streets  were  filled  with  a  mist  so  tangible  that  it  brushed 
the  face  and  left  it  wet  as  with  dew,  smote  upon  chords 
in  his  soul  which  he  had  not  yet  learned  to  analyze  and  to 
classify. 

He  did  not  at  once  begin  his  long-deferred  meditation 
upon  the  War.  He  thought  first  of  Guido  von  Estritz  and 
the  strange  destiny  which  his  parents  had  desired  to  thrust 
upon  him.  A  curious  feeling  of  guilt  beset  him  at  times 
because  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  think  of  his  Russian 
mother  save  with  anger  and  contempt.  Frau  Ursula  had 
plead  with  him  not  once  but  dozens  of  time.  Without 
avail.  He  could  not  picture  Varvara  Alexandrovna  ex 
cepting  with  the  assassin's  bomb.  He  could  not  think  of 
her  as  his  father's  wife,  as  a  mother  who  had  desired  to 
dower  her  babe  as  no  babe  had  ever  been  dowered  before. 
He  could  not  even  think  of  her  as  an  exile  from  home 
and  friends,  as  a  prisoner  in  an  unclean,  ill-ventilated, 
ill-heated  cell.  He  could  not  pity  her.  He  could  have 
pitied  any  other  criminal,  enduring  so  relentless  a  sentence, 


440  THE  HYPHEN 

but  the  humiliating,  outrageous  fact  that  this  woman  was 
his  mother  placed  her  beyond  the  pale  of  his  pity. 

He  even  refused  to  receive  or  to  look  at  a  miniature 
portraying  her  as  a  bride,  which  Frau  Ursula  had  in  her 
possession. 

He  was  not — as  has  been  said  before — a  saint,  and 
certain  currents  of  life  bearing  an  educational  impress  had 
barely  touched  him  as  yet. 

His  mind,  with  a  snap,  came  back  to  the  War. 

He  had  a  feeling  sometimes  that  this  War  was  an  ele 
mental  thing,  something  like  a  fire,  or  a  cyclone,  something 
caused  by  tremendous  forces  of  nature  in  cataclysmal  con- 
flict.  Or,  like  an  epidemic.  The  War  was  a  disease, 
perhaps,  a  terrible  scourge,  the  like  of  which  had  never 
been  known,  although  there  had  been  lesser  outbreaks 
before.  To  find  the  cause  of  this  War  then  was  like  find 
ing  the  germ  causing  an  exceptional  disease,  like  cancer, 
or  infantile  paralysis.  Were  there  different  germs  foi 
different  wars?  Or,  was  the  germ  always  the  same,  and 
differing  in  virulence  and  malignancy  only  because  of  a 
divergence  in  local  conditions? 

The  thought  fascinated  him.  It  was  to  him  not  a 
metaphor,  pointing  an  analogy,  but  a  profound  truth.  It 
was  a  physical  law  transplanted  into  the  spiritual  world, 
for  the  cause  of  the  War,  of  course,  must  have  been  due 
to  spiritual  causes.  Here  his  thoughts  began  to  falter  and 
become  uncertain.  If,  as  Germany  claimed,  the  War  had 
been  caused  by  England's  desire  to  annihilate  a  formidable 
commercial  rival,  the  underlying  cause  would  have  been 
greed.  Well,  greed  was  a  disease  of  the  soul,  a  detestable 
and  fatal  spiritual  disease.  And  so  was  envy,  and  from 
all  the  furious  onslaughts  against  England  in  which  the 
pro-Germans  indulged,  he  was  inclined  to  ascribe  to  envy 
on  Germany's  part,  and  not  to  greed  on  England's,  the 
true  cause  of  the  War. 

But  he  felt  he  could  not  be  certain. 

He  felt  that  he  was  at  the  threshold  of  invisible  things, 
upon  flaccid,  yielding,  treacherous,  quicksand-like  ground. 

The  War  was  barely  four  months  old  and  already  the 
one  cry:  Slav  against  Teuton!  had  been  relegated  to  the 
limbo  of  forgotten  things. 


YOUTH  441 

Yet  it  was  possible  that  there  had  been  a  grain  of  truth 
in  that  slogan. 

Slav  against  Teuton.  Teuton  against  Slav.  No,  not 
that.  Teuton  against  all  other  races.  And  that  meant 
America,  too.  In  time. 

Guido  was  terribly  stirred.  An  intense  excitement  had 
taken  possession  of  him.  He  was  racing  along  through 
the  moist  embraces  of  the  mist-laden  air  like  a  madman, 
unconscious  of  hour,  goal  or  mileage.  The  motion  of  his 
legs  seemed  to  be  energizing  his  brain. 

A  myriad  thoughts  pressed  about  him,  clamoring  for 
utterance.  They  reached  out  toward  him  like  hands,  like 
fingers.  Like  faces  they  peered  at  him  through  the  mist. 

Teuton  against — no,  not  Slav — but  all  races. 

What  was  it  Cecil  had  said  about  race-consciousness? 
And  Mrs.  Erdman?  She,  too,  had  glanced  at  race- feeling 
as  a  legitimate,  not  an  illicit  passion  and  possession. 

He  became  bewildered.  His  sense  of  values  seemed  to 
shift  and  lose  itself.  A  word,  a  phrase  had  power  to  pro 
duce  in  him  gigantic  upheavals.  His  sensitiveness  to  all 
impressions,  particularly  to  the  spoken  word,  was  extreme. 
It  was,  perhaps,  his  pre-natal  heritage. 

He  clung  desperately  to  the  thought  of  America  and 
America's  message  and  America's  mission. 

Yet  if  race-feeling  was  a  legitimate  function  of  a  people, 
if  its  exercise  was  capable  of  producing  such  miracles  of 
focused,  concerted  expression,  of  national  genius  and  will 
as  Notre  Dame,  and  Westminster  Abbey,  and  the  Cathedral 
at  Rheims — God!  The  Germans  had  wrecked  that,  too! 
and  the  Kremlin,  and  St.  Sophia,  and — yes,  Shakespeare, 
Shakespeare  unexpatriated  and  unadopted  by  the  Germans, 
what,  then,  was  going  to  happen  to  America,  America,  the 
tramping  ground  of  all  races?  Where  did  America  come 
in?  Was  anything  wrong  with  America? 

At  this  juncture  he  recalled  Arnold  Bennett's  eulogy  of 
the  Pennsylvania  Terminal  Building  with  its  attendant 
tribute  to  the  imagination  of  a  people  which  had  made  such 
a  triumph  of  architectural  grandeur  possible. 

But,  beautiful  as  the  passage  was,  and  flattering  as  it 
was  to  America,  and  ungracious  as  it  was  therefore  for 
an  American  to  quarrel  with  it,  Guido  felt  that  the  passage 


442  THE  HYPHEN 

missed  its  mark.  He  felt  that  the  superlative  key,  in  which 
it  was  pitched,  should  be  applied  to  superlatives  only. 

And  he  did  not  consider  the  Terminal  Building  a 
superlative  of  national  expression  because  it  was  frankly 
Egyptian  in  character.  It  might  have  been  suggested  by 
the  model  of  the  Temple  of  Karnak  in  the  Metropolitan 
Museum  of  Art. 

Just  as  the  astonishingly  beautiful  facade  of  the  Sub- 
Station  of  the  Postoffice  opposite  the  Terminal  Building 
was  not  American  in  character,  but  Greek. 

Was  Wesendonck  right?  Did  America  have  no  in 
digenous  literature,  art,  music,  architecture? 

He  tingled  with  resentment. 

At  any  rate,  humanitarianism  was  indigenous  to  the  soil 
of  the  New  World.  No  mistake  about  that. 

He  wondered  whether  not  entirely  too  much  importance 
was  being  attached  to  racial  traits,  shortcomings,  habits 
and  cults. 

For  the  Doors  of  the  Baptistery,  St.  Paul's,  the  Pantheon, 
and — last  but  not  least — Shakespeare  were,  after  all — 
whether  Shakespeare  or  Bacon  wrote  Shakespeare — the 
work  of  one  man.  Could  so  huge  a  collective  body  of 
human  beings  as  a  nation  be  actuated  by  so  indivisible  an 
accord  as  to  merit  co-credit  for  individual  works  of  art? 
To  think  so  seemed  balderdash.  Yet,  incontrovertibly, 
there  were  eras  in  art,  literature,  music  and  architecture 
in  which  a  nation's  entire  genius  seemed  to  effloresce  in 
one  direction.  Perhaps  telepathy  furnished  the  explana 
tion.  Perhaps  the  human  mind,  or  the  human  soul,  or 
whatever  the  particular  organ  was  whence  the  impetus 
originated,  were  mere  subdivisions  of  a  spiritual  species, 
differing  slightly  in  savor,  as  individual  apples  of  a  single 
species  have  some  a  finer,  some  a  grosser  flavor,  than 
their  fellows. 

Suddenly  there  reverberated  through  the  chambers  of 
his  soul  the  line: 

"We  love  as  one,  we  hate  as  one." 

The  mighty  malevolence  of  that  shook  him  as  never  before. 
He  had  his  answer. 
There  was  such  a  thing  as  a  collective  soul  of  race. 


YOUTH  443 

And  America? 

With  all  races  represented? 

He  felt  cowed,  frightened,  distraught.  He  felt  like  a 
traitor.  But  his  faith  in  the  destiny  of  his  own  country 
was  superb. 

Whatever  was  true  or  not  true  with  regard  to  race, 
America  was  safe.  America  was  on  the  right  track. 
America  would  accomplish  the  impossible.  America  would 
amalgamate  and  fuse  where  other  countries  would  sever 
and  disjoin. 

America  had  a  mission.  It  was  the  one  thing  of  which 
he  felt  overwhelmingly  certain. 

He  recollected  that  the  Germans  also  thought  that  they 
had  a  mission.  And  the  Russians;  and  the  English;  and 
the  French.  He  seemed  to  be  running  around  in  a  circle. 
And  suddenly  light  dawned  on  him  in  profusion. 

If  that  was  so,  and  apparently  every  nation  did  believe 
in  its  own  destiny,  then,  of  course,  America  was  Tightest 
of  all,  since  in  her  were  merged  all  races. 

For  a  moment  he  thought  he  had  gone  off  at  a  tangent 
from  the  ring  in  which  he  had  been  circling  like  some 
circus  creature. 

Then  he  perceived  that  he  had  merely  slipped  from  the 
inside  to  the  outside  of  the  ring,  and  that  the  center  about 
which  he  was  curveting  was  the  same. 

What  was  going  to  happen  to  America?  Amalgama 
tion  of  races?  Predominance  of  one  race?  There  was  no 
third  possibility  that  he  could  think  of.  Which,  then,  was 
is  to  be? 

Suddenly  some  subterranean  impetus  caused  his  thoughts 
to  turn  to  Cecil.  A  violent  longing  to  speak  once  more 
to  the  English  lad  seized  him.  For  all  he  knew  Cecil  was 
now  in  a  troop-ship,  bound  for  Britain.  For  a  few  minutes 
nostalgia  for  his  friend  wrenched  him.  Cecil  was  the  one 
person  in  all  the  world  whose  company  he  desired  and 
had  desired  before  during  these  strange  midnight  wander 
ings.  Cecil  might  have  helped  him.  Cecil  and  he  would 
have  differed.  Cecil  would  have  suggested  view-points 
strange  to  him  as  the  antipodes,  but  the  suggestion  of 
view-points  alien  to  his  nature,  by  forcing  him  to  argue, 
would  have  made  plain  to  him  where  he  himself  stood, 
what  he  himself  believed  and  desired. 


444  THE  HYPHEN 

The  clock  on  the  church  steeple  tolled  the  hour.  The 
sound  came  to  him  through  the  fog  muffled  and  indistinct 
as  the  gleam  of  the  street  lights.  He  awakened  rudely 
to  the  fact  that  it  was  one  o'clock  and  that  he  was  in  a 
part  of  the  town  which  abounded  in  resorts  of  ill-repute. 

He  felt  chill  and  tired.  Not  a  soul  was  in  sight.  This 
somewhat  reassured  him,  since  the  only  characters  whom 
he  might  reasonably  expect  to  meet  in  this  section  of 
Anasquoit  at  night  were  tramps  and  worse. 

He  stepped  to  the  curb  and  strained  his  eyes  and  ears 
for  any  indication  of  a  trolley  or  a  taxi-cab.  Finally  he 
heard  the  whizzing  of  an  automobile  coming  in  his  direc 
tion.  Owing  to  the  dense  mist  he  could  not  make  out 
whether  the  automobile  was  a  taxi-cab  or  a  private  car. 
So  he  stepped  into  the  street,  lifting  his  hand  to  the 
chauffeur.  The  car  flew  past  him,  and  was  swallowed 
up  by  the  mist.  But  Guido  heard  it  slowing  down,  and 
knew  that  it  had  stopped  not  far  away.  So  he  ran  after  it. 

The  driver  was  waiting  for  him. 

"I  have  a  fare  now,"  he  said,  "but  the  gent  says  you 
can  jump  in.  He  has  only  ten  more  blocks  to  go." 

Guido  accordingly  scrambled  into  the  car,  and  seated 
himself,  an  action  which  was  accelerated  by  the  sudden 
starting  of  the  car.  Having  shut  the  door,  Guido  began 
to  thank  the  passenger  for  his  hospitality  to  a  stranger. 
He  had  barely  concluded  his  brief  acknowledgment,  when 
a  sonorous,  well-trained  voice,  which  he  recognized  as  be 
longing  to  Pastor  Marlow,  said: 

"Well,  well,  so  it  was  you?  And  what  may  Guido  von 
Estritz  be  doing  in  this  part  of  the  town  at  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning?" 

Guido  flushed  with  annoyance.  It  is  a  churlish  thing  to 
pick  a  quarrel  with  a  benefactor,  and  a  quarrel,  he  felt, 
would  be  inevitable  if  he  employed  candor  untempered  by 
subtlest  displomacy  in  replying  to  the  Pastor's  question. 

In  his  preoccupation  the  inwardness  of  the  question 
escaped  him  entirely.  There  was  considerable  excuse  for 
a  minister  of  the  gospel  who,  picking  up  a  lad  in  his  teens 
at  one  in  the  morning  in  a  part  of  the  town  fairly  peppered 
with  disreputable  resorts  of  every  description,  felt  it  in 
cumbent  to  demand  an  explanation. 


YOUTH  445 

"To  be  perfectly  candid,"  said  Guido,  essaying  the  light 
tone  of  social  repartee,  "I  was  settling  the  War." 

If  it  had  been  Guide's  intention  to  divert  the  Pastor's 
homily  upon  the  strait  and  narrow  path,  which  the  good 
man  was  preparing  to  deliver,  he  could  not  have  hit  upon 
a  better  expedient  than  by  telling  him  the  truth.  He 
forgot  all  about  the  delinquency  of  which  he  had  suspected 
Guido  a  moment  before.  The  aberrations  of  youth  may 
be  pardoned,  but  an  aberration  away  from  race  is  a  much 
more  serious  offense! 

"In  favor  of  England,  eh?"  the  Pastor  demanded. 

Guido  did  not  reply. 

"I  have  heard  of  your  apostasy,"  the  Herr  Pastor  con 
tinued,  "and  I  am  sorry  for  it.  I  am  sorry  you  should 
hearken  to  the  tongues  of  our  enemies  who  blacken  and 
smirch  and  defame  us. 

"You  are  not  a  communicant  of  my  church,"  Pastor 
Marlow  continued,  "and  I  am  somewhat  in  the  dark  as 
to  your  religious  belief.  But  I  assume  I  am  addressing 
a  Christian.  I  want  you  to  recall  the  words  of  St.  Paul: 
'Now  abide  these  three,  hope,  faith  and  charity,  but  the 
greatest  of  these  is  Charity/ 

"Of  charity  so  much  has  been  written  that  its  enormous 
importance  in  the  life  of  the  soul  has  become  almost  self- 
evident.  Even  to  non-Christians.  Hope,  too,  is  self-ex 
planatory,  for,  lacking  the  hope  for  eternal  life,  who  would 
have  the  courage  to  face  all  the  tribulations  which  beset 
us  on  earth?  But  of  faith  too  little — far,  far  too  little — 
has  been  said.  For  without  faith  hope  could  not  exist. 
Hope  is  more  or  less  vague,  uncertain,  faltering.  Faith 
focuses  hope,  supplies  its  foundation  and  gives  it  point. 
Faith  is  the  adamantine  bed-rock  upon  which  hope,  the  airy 
and  agreeable  superstructure,  is  reared.  Without  faith, 
love  itself  would  assume  a  haphazard,  vagrant,  shambling 
nature,  for  without  faith,  in  practicing  charity,  we  divest 
charity  of  its  divine  mantle  and  transform  it  into  a  thing 
earthly  and  of  the  earth.  We  cannot  dispense  with  faith. 
It  is  a  quintessential  ingredient  of  the  love  we  feel  for  God. 

"And  it  is  not  enough  that  we  have  faith  in  God,  the 
Father,  we  must  have  faith  in  men,  our  brethren,  more 
particularly  must  we  have  faith  in  our  kindred.  The  bonds 
of  consanguinity  are  based  on  faith.  The  mother  loves 


446  THE  HYPHEN 

her  babe  because  she  has  faith  in  its  unrevealed  character 
and  natural  endowments.  The  husband  loves  his  wife, 
the  wife  her  husband  because  they  have  faith  in  each 
other's  righteousness  and  honor.  It  is  right  and  natural 
that  we  should  feel  this  faith  in  those  of  our  blood  and 
of  our  own  race.  Why,  then,  my  boy,  have  you  done  this 
unnatural  thing — espoused  the  cause  of  our  enemies?" 

Such  was  the  man's  eloquence,  his  sincerity  so  evident, 
that  Guido  felt  profoundly  shaken.  He  felt  culpable  at 
the  moment,  culpable  and  ashamed. 

The  car  stopped  with  smooth  suddenness  before  the 
rectory.  Pastor  Marlow  opened  the  door  and  called  to 
the  chauffeur  that  he  and  the  young  gentleman  were  not 
ready  to  leave  the  car  and  that  he  should  be  paid  for 
his  wait.  Then,  shutting  the  door,  he  leaned  back  com 
fortably  in  the  well-cushioned  seat  and  repeated  his  ques 
tion. 

"Why,  my  son,  why,  I  ask,  are  you,  who  are  honorable 
and  upright  from  all  I  hear  of  you,  doing  this  unnatural 
thing?" 

The  boy  struggled  to  free  himself  from  the  lethargy  into 
which  his  intelligence  had  been  lulled  by  the  Pastor's 
words.  He  told  himself  twice,  thrice  that  he  didn't  be 
lieve  a  word  of  what  Pastor  Marlow  had  said.  To  begin 
with,  he  was  not  a  Christian  at  all,  and  all  this  talk  of 
being  Children  of  God  and  Brethren  in  Christ  was  mere 
fine  rhetoric.  He  could  not  believe  in  all  that,  of  course. 
His  destiny  did  not  permit.  Nevertheless,  it  was  all  very 
beautiful  and  helpful  and  kind  and  good. 

"Well  ?"  the  Pastor  inquired  again. 

The  boy  shook  himself  free  from  the  spell  which  the 
silver  tongue  of  Pastor  Marlow  had  fastened  upon  him. 

"All  you  said  about  faith  and  love  was  very  beautiful," 
he  began.  "But — I  am  not  a  Christian.  Consequently, 
I  have  neither  hope  nor  faith  in  the  Christian's  acceptance 
of  those  words.  I  do  believe,  however,  in  a  Divine  Activity 
or  Will  lying  back  of  the  Universe."  Guido  paused,  a 
little  frightened  by  his  boldness  in  thus  setting  forth  his 
belief.  Until  this  moment  he  had  been  unaware  of  hold 
ing  that  belief,  but,  he  argued,  sub-consciously,  uncon 
sciously  he  must  have  held  it  or  it  would  not  have  sprung 
ready  formulated  to  his  lips. 


YOUTH  447 

"And  I  have  a  faith,  a  quite  incredible  faith — in  hu 
manity.  It  is  because  of  this  faith  in  humanity  that  I 
condemn  the  Germans." 

"The  Germans !  You  speak  as  if  you  yourself  were  not 
a  German." 

"I  am  an  American." 

"Politically,  geographically.  Racially  you  are  a  Ger 
man." 

"You  are  aware,  of  course,  that  I  have  Russian  as  well 
as  German  blood." 

"To  all  intents  that  signifies  nothing.  Your  father  was 
a  German.  Your  name  is  German." 

"My  grandfather  left  Germany  because  he  disapproved 
of  the  German  form  of  government." 

"No,  no,  my  lad.  Your  grandfather  left  Germany  be 
cause  there  was  a  price  on  his  head  as  he  had  been  one 
of  the  leaders  in  the  insurrection  of  1848." 

"Insurrection!"  Guido  was  now  thoroughly  aroused. 
"My  grandfather  believed  in  democratic  ideals.  He  wanted 
to  help  establish  constitutional  government  in  Germany. 
Say  he  had  gone  back  to  fight  for  that  issue,  if  it  had 
been  possible  to  do  so,  would  he  have  been  a  worse  Ameri 
can  because  he  desired  to  propagate  the  principles  upon 
which  the  American  commonwealth  was  founded?  In 
surrection  !"  the  boy  exclaimed  again.  "I  know  two  old 
Achtundvierziger,  and  they  call  it  a  Revolution." 

"Well,  well,  we  will  not  quarrel  about  terms,"  said  the 
Pastor,  soothingly. 

"At  any  rate,"  Guido  continued,  "if  all  the  blood  in 
my  veins  were  German,  as  only  half  is  German,  I  would 
still  be  anti-German  because  as  I  said  before,  my  faith 
in  manliness  and  honor  embraces  all  humanity  and  not 
merely  one  branch  of  it." 

Pastor  Marlow  hesitated  a  moment  before  he  said: 

"I,  too,  have  faith  in  all  humanity,  ultimately.  But  at 
present  we  must  have  faith  in  one  section  of  humanity 
as  opposed  to  another  section.  Why,  then,  have  you  with 
drawn  your  faith  from  that  part  of  humanity  of  which 
you  yourself  are  a  part?" 

Guido  became  violently  excited. 

"I  had  faith — a  quite  prodigious,  colossal,  iron-cast  faith 
until  the  very  moment  that  the  Kaiser  declared  war,"  he 


448  THE  HYPHEN 

cried.  "Now  in  view  of  all  the  outrages  committed — I 
speak  only  of  those  which  the  Germans  do  not  deny — my 
faith  has  crumbled  away.  How  any  honest  man  can  con 
tinue  to  be  pro-German  after  Belgium,  after  Scarborough 
and  Whitby,  after  the  bombing  by  aircraft  of  unfortified 
towns,  I  cannot  comprehend.  And  I  do  not  want  to  com 
prehend." 

Pastor  Marlow  showed  neither  resentment  nor  anger. 
After  a  brief  pause,  he  said: 

"German  unfortified  towns,  like  Nuremberg,  were  bombed 
by  French  flyers  before  Germany  ever  thought  of  bombing 
English  towns.  As  to  .the  battleship  raids  there  are,  I 
think,  reasons  for  that  which  we  cannot  comprehend.  You 
see,  my  lad,  although  appearances  are  against  Germany,  I 
have  faith  in  her." 

"Faith !"  snorted  Guido.  "International  law  and "  he 

stumbled  over  the  connective  in  a  vain  effort  to  find  a 
German  equivalent  for  chivalry.  He  did  not  succeed,  and 
made  mental  note  of  what  was  either  his  own  inadequate 
vocabulary  or  a  deficiency  in  the  German  language.  "In 
ternational  law  forbids  the  slaughter  of  non-combatants," 
he  began  anew,  but  was  gently  interrupted  at  once  by  the 
Pastor. 

"And  are  the  lives  of  non-combatants  really  so  much 
more  precious  than  the  lives  of  our  soldiers?"  he  asked. 
"We  Germans  think  very  highly  of  our  soldiers.  Our  army 
does  not  consist  of  mercenaries,  of  paid  hirelings  like  the 
British  and  American  Armies." 

Guide's  blood  beat  tempestuously  in  his  temples. 

"You  have  hit  the  bull's-eye  by  chance,  Herr  Pastor," 
he  said.  "You  Germans  think  highly  of  your  soldiers  be 
cause  you  think  highly  of  war.  It  is  in  your  estimation 
an  honorable  profession,  the  noblest  profession,  in  fact,  of 
all.  Americans,  I  think,  regard  war  as  something  hateful 
and  wicked.  We  admire  the  soldier  and  his  courage,  but 
decicedly  we  do  not  regard  soldiering  as  a  sort  of  sacro 
sanct  profession.  We  do  not  deify  it.  That's  because  we 
see  in  war  a  dirty  job  that  has  got  to  be  gotten  through 
with.  And  what's  more,  America  never  goes  to  war  unless 
she  has  just  got  to.  And  that's  not  cowardice,  either.  It^s 
just  the  feeling  that  war  is  a  last  resort,  and  not  to  be 
entered  upon  lightly." 


YOUTH  449 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Pastor  Marlow,  "your  views  have  be 
come  hopelessly  contaminated." 

"If  to  be  hopelessly  contaminated  means  to  place  right 
above  race,  then,  by  all  means,  I  am  hopelessly  con 
taminated,"  Guido  replied.  "If  I  were  of  French  extrac 
tion,  and  had  lived  in  the  Napoleonic  era,  I  would  have 
been  as  violently  anti-French  as  I  am  anti-German  living 
in  the  days  of  William  Hohenzollern.  The  hegemony  of 
Europe  has  been  the  dream  of  more  than  one  despot. 
William  the  Second  is  not  the  first  to  cherish  that  dream." 

"I  see,"  the  Pastor  said,  still  more  mildly,  "that  you  have 
allowed  yourself  to  become  completely  saturated  with 
English  lies." 

"And  Belgium — is  the  violation  of  Belgium  an  English 
lie,  also?"  the  boy  cried. 

"Also !  If  you  knew  anything  about  German  discipline 
you  would  know  that  German  'atrocities'  are  an  impossi 
bility." 

"But  they  occur  in  every  war,"  said  Guido.  "They  oc 
curred  in  the  Boer  War,  in  our  own  Civil  War,  they  were 
reported  to  have  occurred  during  the  American  occupation 
of  Vera  Cruz.  But  all  these  instances  were  cases  of  in 
dividual  outrage,  not  concerted  outrage  ordered  by  the 
military  authorities  for  the  purpose  of  intimidation." 

"I  am  quite  willing  to  believe  that  the  British  and  the 
American  soldiers  are  capable  of  atrocities,"  Pastor  Marlow 
replied,  "you  see,  the  rag-end  of  humanity  enters  those 
armies.  With  the  Germans,  all  that  is  different." 

Guido  vaulted  from  his  seat  and  was  about  to  jump  out 
of  the  car,  but  the  Pastor  restrained  him. 

"I  must  to  bed,"  he  said  mildly.  "I  come  from  a  dying 
man."  He  climbed  from  the  car,  a  little  heavily.  From 
the  curb  he  recited  Geibel's  verse,  so  popular  with  Germans 
throughout  the  world: 

"Und  es  wird  am  deutschen  Wesen 
Einmal  noch  die  Welt  genesen."* 

Now  Guido  loved  Geibel's  poems,  and  thought  his 
"Osterlied"  as  perfect  a  lyric  as  Shelley's  "Ode  to  a  Sky- 

*'And  German  culture,  German  truth, 
Shall  one  day  save  the  world  in  sooth." 


450  THE  HYPHEN 

Lark."  It  so  happened  that  the  verse  which  the  Pastor 
had  quoted  had  not  recurred  to  him.  He  could  have  wept 
when  he  heard  it.  Were  all  things  German  to  turn  to 
dross  in  his  hands?  Were  all  things  German  to  assume 
either  an  insolent  or  a  base  aspect? 

He  was  so  shaken  that  he  did  not  reply. 

After  reaching  his  hotel,  Guido  sat  in  his  room  without 
undressing,  his  face  in  his  cupped  hands,  until  long  after 
three  o'clock.  His  talk  with  the  Pastor  had  quickened  in 
him  the  fierce  blaze  of  shame  which  he  had  been  at  such 
pains  to  beat  down.  It  had  another,  a  contrary  effect. 
Guido  was,  as  we  know,  extremely  susceptible  to  the  charm 
of  language.  He  was  as  sensitive  to  beauty  of  words  and 
of  diction  as  a  musician  is  sensitive  to  purity  of  tone  and 
a  painter  to  the  value  of  color  and  line.  And  German 
was  the  language  which  he  invariably  spoke  at  home  with 
his  mother,  the  language  earliest  in  his  recollection,  the 
comfortable,  easy  language  of  love  and  intimacy,  the 
language  which,  when  the  last  is  said,  still  came  to  his 
lips  with  slighter  effort,  with  a  more  liquid  fluency  and 
geater  spontaneity  than  English  or  Russian.  Pastor  Mar- 
low's  German  was  very  beautiful,  and  his  words  had 
clamorously  touched  certain  inflammable  chords  of  heart 
and  soul.  But  his  intelligence  they  could  not  vitiate. 
Heart  and  soul,  deeply  stirred  as  they  were,  plead  with  all 
the  fiery  eloquence  of  emotional  direction  before  the 
tribunal  of  the  mind.  His  mind  weighed  fact  against  senti 
ment,  truth  against  habit,  honor  against  tradition,  and  re 
fused  to  be  corrupted,  saying  sternly  to  heart  and  soul: 
"To  you  I  will  render  the  things  which  are  yours;  to 
honesty  and  honor  the  things  which  are  theirs." 

He  suffered  cruelly.  The  boy,  in  that  dark  hour,  had 
a  glimpse  of  the  real  bias  which  underlay  the  unaccount 
able  wrong-headedness  of  his  German- American  friends. 
His  shame  died  away.  His  judgment  seemed  to  sway  and 
to  falter.  Emotion  arose  like  a  tidal  wave  and  encom 
passed  him.  His  spiritual  struggle  was  terrible.  He  felt 
dimly  that  if  he  abandoned  himself  to  this  wave  of  un 
reasoning  feeling  he  might,  like  Otto  and  Eddie  and  Henry, 
allow  his  reason  to  be  usurped  by  the  money-sweet  voice  of 
racial  kinship  and  pride. 

He  looked   now  with  eyes  that  saw  clearly  upon   the 


YOUTH  451 

stark,  uncompromising,  naked  truth  that  he,  too,  was  not 
immune  against  the  clarion  call  of  race.  Cecil,  then,  was 
right.  You  might  love  your  own  race  or  hate  it,  as  Heine 
had  done,  as  he  sometimes  suspected  himself  of  doing, 
but  whatever  the  feeling  is  that  inspires  you  there  is  in 
it  a  frightful,  grappling  closeness  which  you  will  feel  for 
no  race  but  your  own.  Like  the  ties  of  blood.  No  matter 
how  divergent  you  may  be  in  aspiration,  character  and 
tastes  from  your  brother,  that  brother's  glory  must  be 
your  glory,  that  brother's  shame  must  be  your  shame. 

Such  then  was  the  immutable  fact  which  must  be  reck 
oned  with  in  the  final  adjustment  of  self  to  country  and 
honor.  His  race  called  to  him  not  through  convention 
and  custom  and  habits  as  it  did  to  his  friends,  but  through 
the  no  less  potent  channel  of  language. 

He  felt  that  he  durst  not  allow  himself  to  be  engulfed. 
It  was  only  the  cursed  charm  of  the  Pastor's  diction  that 
had  wrought  such  havoc  in  his  feelings.  As  toward  a 
talisman  he  reached  toward  his  shelf  of  books  for  a  volume 
in  English  with  which  to  exercise  the  baneful  spell.  He 
had  been  thinking  in  German.  He  knew  that  he  must  apply 
a  stimulus  to  those  convolutions  of  his  brain  whereon  was 
engraved  his  English  vocabulary — English,  which  was  the 
language  of  his  maturity,  of  his  reasoning  and  reflective 
powers  as  German  was  the  language  of  sentiment  and 
affection. 

The  book  which  his  hand  happened  to  secure  was  the 
Bible.  Guido  smiled.  The  Christian  would  have  seen  in 
that  more  than  mere  chance.  He  opened  it.  Any  book 
and  any  passage  thereof,  so  it  was  writ  in  fair  English, 
would  answer  his  purpose. 

The  passage  upon  which  his  eye  alighted  was  the  thirty- 
seventh  verse  of  the  Tenth  Chapter  of  St.  Matthew: 

"He  that  loveth  father  or  mother  more  than  me  is  not 
worthy  of  me ;  and  he  that  loveth  son  and  daughter  more 
than  me  is  not  worthy  of  me. 

"And  he  that  taketh  not  his  cross  and  followeth  after 
me  is  not  worthy  of  me." 

Guido  read  the  passage  thrice  over  and  then,  with  a 
gasp,  closed  the  Bible  and  gently  replaced  it  upon  the  book- 
rack. 


452  THE  HYPHEN 

Was  there  in  this  more  than  chance  after  all? 

Father  and  mother  typified  home,  the  homing  instinct, 
the  desire  to  run  along  easily  in  the  time-worn  rut  of 
custom  and  language.  Language  above  all.  And  love  of 
Christ,  what  was  that  but  love  of  truth! 

Simultaneously  his  thoughts  darted  in  half  a  dozen  direc 
tions. 

It  was,  of  course,  merest  coincidence  that  his  hand, 
groping  blindly,  should  have  fetched  him  the  Bible ;  merest 
chance  that  he  had  opened  it  at  precisely  that  page,  and 
that  his  eye  had  plucked  precisely  that  passage  from  among 
its  fellows. 

Yet  henceforth  must  the  Bible  be  more  to  him  than  a 
mere  book. 

He  had  always  loved  and  reverenced  it.  Now  it  was 
more  than  a  book.  It  had  proved  itself  a  friend,  a  friend 
in  the  hour  of  supreme  need. 

The  spell  which  the  German  of  Pastor  Marlow  had 
thrown  over  him  was  effectually  disrupted. 

He  wished  that  he  had  never  heard  a  word  of  German 
and  revoked  the  wish  immediately.  To  be  deprived  of  the 
joy  of  reading  "Don  Carlos,"  "Faust,"  "Nathan  the  Wise," 
in  the  original  German  would  be  a  loss  only  second  to  the 
loss  of  not  reading  Shakespeare  and  Meredith  in  English, 
or  Tolstoy  and  Dostoevsky  in  Russian. 

Besides,  he  was  not  such  a  weakling  that  mere  love  of 
a  language  could  lure  him  from  the  path  of  honor. 

Also,  he  loved  English  quite  as  much  as  German.  In  a 
different  way.  What  was  the  use  of  splitting  hairs?  One 
loved  one  friend  for  one  quality,  another  friend  for  another 
trait.  One  loved  an  Otto  for  his  gruff  loyalty  and  warmth 
of  devotion,  the  very  qualities  which  had  brought  him  to 
his  sorry  pass  in  relation  to  the  War.  One  loved  a  Cecil 
for  his  breadth  and  poise;  one  loved  a  Dobronov  for  his 
sincerity  and  unmercinariness,  for  his — well,  soulfulness, 
although  the  word  was  detestable. 

Thank  Heaven,  he  was  thinking  in  English  now. 

That  accursed  German  tongue!  Yet,  heavens!  how  he 
loved  it. 

Still,  if  the  German  language  had  the  sinister  power 
thus  to  affect  him,  he  would  not  read  it  or  speak  it  while 
the  War  was  on. 


YOUTH  453 

Yes,  he  would.  He  would  rise  superior  to  its  blandish 
ments.  He  would  read  it  and  speak  it  and  love  it  as  much 
as  heretofore,  realizing  fully  that  much  as  he  might  ap 
prove  of  the  delicate  bloom  of  sentiment  of  which  the 
German  tongue  is  capable,  America  embodied  his  spiritual 
and  his  political  ideals,  and — quite  apart  from  his  pas 
sionate  love  of  the  English  language — so  long  as  a  man 
subscribed  to  the  spiritual  ideals  for  which  America  stood, 
it  mattered  not  whether  he  expressed  himself  in  English, 
in  German  or  in  Hindustani. 

Although,  of  course,  the  English  language  must  pre 
dominate.  He  remembered  Wesendonck's  prophecy  that 
German  would  be  taught  in  the  public  schools  of  America 
in  place  of  English  ten  years  after  cessation  of  the  War. 

That,  of  course,  was  preposterous.  Was  insufferable. 
He  became  quite  excited.  He  strode  angrily  up  and  down 
the  room  until  he  remembered  that  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning  were  hardly  the  time  for  a  protracted  promenade 
in  walking  boots  in  a  hotel  room,  with  someone  asleep  in 
the  room  beneath.  So  he  sat  down  hastily,  removing  his 
footwear  against  a  recurrence  of  insuppressible  excite 
ment,  which,  as  like  as  not,  would  again  affect  his  feet. 

His  mental  equipment  rendered  him  incapable  of  ac 
cepting  any  fact  as  a  fact  without  inquiring  into  its  why 
and  wherefore. 

Why  was  it  preposterous  that  German,  or  any  other 
tongue,  should  supplant  English  in  the  United  States? 

In  the  first  place,  of  course,  because  English  was  the 
language  of  the  vast  majority  of  Americans. 

In  the  second  place,  because  it  had  been  the  first  language 
spoken  in  the  Thirteen  Colonies. 

In  the  third  place — but  he  could  not  think  at  once  of  a 
third  reason,  and  yet  he  knew  that  a  third  reason  existed 
and  that  it  was  much  subtler  and  in  a  way  more  important 
than  the  first  two  reasons.  This  reason  seemed  to  loiter 
somewheres  just  beneath  the  surface  of  his  conscious 
thought.  But  he  could  not  bring  it  across  the  threshold  of 
his  consciousness.  It  tantalized  him,  teased  him,  eluded 
him. 

He  was  desperately  tired,  but  he  felt  that  he  could  not 
sleep  before  he  had  unearthed  that  third  reason. 


454  THE  HYPHEN 

And  suddenly  it  came  to  him,  lightning-wise,  electrically, 
magnificently. 

The  Germans — Wesendonck  among  others — were  boast 
ful  of  the  memory-helping  quality  of  the  German  tongue, 
and  of  the  peculiar  fluidity  which  lent  its  roots  to  easy 
manipulation  by  suffixes  and  prefixes.  It  was  this  quality 
of  the  German  language  that  had  made  him  boast  as  a 
little  chap  of  eleven  that  he  was  able  to  understand  every 
German  word  unless  it  had  a  technical  use.  Opposed  to 
this  well-oiled  smoothness  of  German,  with  its  rubber- 
stamp  effect,  was  the  sharp  irresponsibility  of  the  English 
tongue,  with  its  unsuspected  angularities,  its  amazing  rich 
ness  and  variety,  its  briar-rose  quality  of  wayward .  but 
heavenly  initiative. 

Here,  then,  was  the  third  reason  why  English  and  no 
other  language,  no  other  language,  must  be  the  language 
of  America.  Political  imagination  and  daring  and  demo 
cratic  ideals  might  stand  in  closer  relation  to  these  adven 
ture-breathing,  invention-promising  traits  of  the  English 
language  than  was  commonly  imagined.  And  the  political 
phlegm  of  the  German  might  be  due  in  large  part  to  the 
very  accessibility  and  easy  familiarity  of  the  "memory- 
aiding  qualities"  of  his  language. 

Another  thing.  Guido  understood  now  the  mechanism 
of  the  spell  exerted  upon  him  by  German.  He  had  taken 
his  toy  apart  and  seen  the  engine  that  animated  it.  He 
would  enjoy  his  toy  as  much  as  before  but  it  would  not 
hold  him  bound  in  supine  awe  as  it  had  hitherto  done. 

He  was  desperately  tired.  He  began  to  undress.  He  was 
so  tired  that  he  could  not  perform  the  simple  functions 
of  undressing  automatically.  He  must  give  them  his  un 
divided  attention. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  his  fatigue,  he  was  profoundly  ex 
cited.  His  third  reason  had  furnished  him  with  an  entire 
new  train  of  thought  bearing  upon  the  destiny  of  America. 
And  England,  too,  perhaps.  He  recalled  what  Cecil  had 
said  about  the  conjoined  destiny  of  England  and  America. 
Pan-Anglo-Saxonism.  Why  not  ?  Pan- Anglo-Saxo- Ameri 
canism  !  That  was  better  still. 

The  other  races  undoubtedly  must  also  play  their  part. 
America  was  big  enough  for  all.  Here  all  must  have  an 
equal  opportunity.  Simply  must.  He  was  thankful  that 


YOUTH  455 

he  understood  at  last  what  Cecil  had  meant  by  race  con 
sciousness. 

But — was  it  not  strange? — in  the  very  hour  that  race 
consciousness  had  been  awakened  in  him  he  had  again 
turned  away  from  his  own  race  and  clung  to  the  race  to 
which  America  owed  her  political  greatness. 

There  was,  perhaps,  operating  in  him  something  in 
finitely  more  powerful  than  a  sense  of  race.  He  did  -not 
suspect  it.  He  did  not  suspect  that  he  had  an  extraordinary 
gift  of  separating  the  wheat  from  the  chaff.  He  would 
have  spurned  with  indignation  the  suggestion  that  his 
destiny  was  beginning  to  operate  in  him.  But  truth  is 
truth.  And  so  it  was. 


CHAPTER  IX 

GROSSVATER  GEDDES  took  a  less  complacent  view 
than  Pastor  Mario w  of  the  battleship  raids  upon 
the  English  coast  towns.  Guido,  calling  at  the  Geddes 
home  a  few  days  after  his  midnight  encounter  with  the 
Pastor,  was  told  by  Janet  that  her  grandfather  had  been 
greatly  affected  by  that  particular  bit  of  German  deviltry. 
His  appetite  had  been  poor  ever  since,  his  sleep  interrupted 
and  uncertain.  Moreover,  he  had  been  greatly  dissatisfied 
with  the  editorial  attitude  of  the  German  paper  which  he 
read  regularly. 

"Not  a  word  of  disapproval  or  censure,"  he  had  an 
nounced  after  a  brief  glance  at  the  news  column  and 
editorial  page,  and  had  then  spent  the  better  part  of  the 
morning  reading  the  other  German  papers  in  quest  of  a 
saving  phrase  of  disapproval.  He  had  not  found  such 
a  phrase.  Thereupon  he  had  told  his  son  at  the  dinner- 
table  that  he  would  discontinue  his  German  paper.  But 
the  dear  old  man  had  always  read  a  German  paper  in 
addition  to  an  English  paper,  and  besides  he  was  plagued 
by  an  odd  compound  of  curiosity  and  faith  which,  after 
all,  held  him  to  the  reading  of  Teutonic  papers,  in  the 
vagrant  hope  that  they  would  yet  recant. 

Wesendonck  had  happened  to  drop  in  for  supper,  and 
there  had  been  a  violent  quarrel,  or  would  have  been  if 
Wesendonck's  breeding  had  not  at  the  last  moment  as 
serted  itself  and  inhibited  a  quarrel  with  a  man  old  enough 
to  be  his  grandfather  at  a  table  where  he  himself  was  a 
guest. 

"Well,  and  what  did  Casimir  have  to  say  this  time?" 
Guido  inquired. 

"You  know  of  course  that  the  Germans  won  the  Civil 
War  for  the  North,"  Janet  threw  out,  with  scathing  irony. 

"I've  been  told  so,"  said  Guido. 

"But  I  had  yet  to  learn,"  Janet  continued,  "and  Casimir 

456 


YOUTH  457 

completed  that  part  of  my  neglected  education,  that  to 
the  Germans  was  due  our  success  in  the  Revolution." 

"What!  Why  it  was  German  George  who  made  the 
Revolution  and  fought  it  with  German  troops." 

"So  we  were  taught  in  school.  But  it  seems  that  the 
Hessians  deserted  wholesale  from  the  British  ranks,  and, 
not  content  to  escape  from  the  British  army,  joined  the 
American  forces." 

"Impelled  by  what  motive?" 

"In  my  amazement  I  forgot  to  ask  that,"  Janet  retorted. 
"Probably  abstract  love  of  liberty.  Moreover,  if  De  Kalb 
and  Steuben  had  not  been  our  drill-masters,  our  troops 
would  never  have  been  properly  trained." 

Guido  stared  stupidly  at  Janet. 

"And  Washington?"  he  demanded. 

"Pray  what  did  a  mere  surveyor  and  Colonial  colonel 
know  about  the  training  of  troops  compared  with  German 
generals  who  had  had  the  advantage  of  being  trained  in 
Frederick  the  Great's  army?" 

"Heavens  and  earth,"  Guido  ejaculated.  "Gneisenau,  a 
greater  soldier  than  either  Steuben  or  De  Kalb,  fought 
with  the  British." 

"Ah,"  said  Janet,  "I  did  not  know  that.  I  wish  my 
father  or  you  had  been  there  at  the  moment." 

"And  did  Casimir  condescend  to  explain  what  De  Kalb 
and  Steuben  knew  of  ambushing  and  all  that  sort  of  thing 
that  Washington  had  learned  in  the  French  and  Indian 
War,  and  which  stood  him  and  his  generals  in  such  good 
stead  throughout  the  Revolution?" 

"Ah,"  said  Janet  again,  "you  should  nave  oeen  there." 

Professor  Geddes  came  into  the  room  just  then,  and 
Janet  said: 

"I  wonder  you  don't  throw  him  out  crop  and  neck, 
Daddy." 

"Whom?    Guido?  " 

"Daddy!     Casimir,  of  course." 

"Not  for  worlds."  Professor  Geddes  smiled  his  twink 
ling,  whimsical  smile.  "He  served  a  dual  purpose.  It 
is  interesting,  in  the  first  place,  to  watch  the  enemy  mind 
at  work.  In  the  second  place,  my  child,  he  is  a  source 
of  inspiration  for  my  patriotism." 


458  THE  HYPHEN 

"Does  your  patriotism  need  inspiring?"  naughty  Janet 
demanded. 

"Patriotism,  unless  hard  jostled  by  events,  is  always  in 
danger  of  turning  stale." 

"But,"  said  Janet,  "this  is  not  our  war." 

"Not  yet,"  said  the  Professor. 

Grossvater  Geddes  came  into  the  room,  newspaper  open 
in  hand. 

"There  has  been  another  air-raid  upon  London,"  he  said. 
"Some  twenty  school-children  were  killed."  His  hand 
trembled  as  he  pointed  to  the  deep  head-lines  on  the  first 
page. 

Janet  slipped   her  hand   under  her  grandfather's   arm. 

"Don't  read  about  it,  Grossvater,"  she  said.  "Come,  let 
me  throw  away  the  horrid  old  paper  and  sit  in  mother's 
window  among  her  geraniums." 

The  old  man  gently  resisted  Janet,  who  was  trying  to 
lead  him  to  the  window-seat. 

"Since  when  do  Germans  make  war  upon  women  and 
children?"  he  demanded  of  his  son.  "It  was  not  so  in 
my  day.  And  I  had  such  faith  in  the  German  race." 

"Let  us  hope,  Father,"  said  the  Professor,  "that  the 
German  people  will  some  day — very  soon — awaken  to  the 
infamy  of  it  all,  and  will  then  refuse  to  allow  themselves 
to  be  made  the  agents  of  civilized  barbarism,  if  the  term 
is  permissible." 

"Revolution,  Eduard?"  his  father  demanded. 

"I  hope  so.  I  think  so.  I,  too,  have  great  faith  in  the 
German  people.  They  will  stand  for  all  this  a  little  while 
longer.  Then,  suddenly,  they'll  turn  against  the  leaders  of 
the  military  octopus  and  slay  them." 

"I  will  have  faith  in  the  German  race  a  little  longer," 
the  old  man  said.  Pathos  indescribable  rang  from  his 
voice.  Slowly  he  went  out  of  the  room. 

The  vision  of  that  little  figure,  which  had  become 
strangely  frail  during  the  last  months,  haunted  Guido  as 
he*  walked  home,  a  stack  of  German  magazines  under  his 
arm,  which  the  Professor  was  sending  to  Frau  Ursula. 

These  magazines  were  very  splendidly  gotten  up.  The 
press-work  was  beautiful,  the  paper  fine  and  strong,  the 
illustrations  exquisite  both  in  conception  and  execution. 
How  was  it  possible  that  a  people  which  had  attained  such 


YOUTH  459 

transcedent  heights  in  art,  in  literature,  in  music,  in  applied 
art,  in  science,  in  medicine  and  philosophy  should  suddenly 
decline  to  the  level  of  moral  obliquity  to  which  Germany 
had  sunk?  German- Americans  might  be  mere  dupes.  But 
the  German  themselves — were  they  dupes  also  ?  How  could 
they  be?  Dupes  of  what?  Of  whom? 

How  could  such  things  as  indubitably  were  being  done 
in  Belgium  and  Northern  France  be  done  by  the  nation 
which  had  brought  forth  Goethe,  Schiller,  Lessing,  Klop- 
stock?  Guido  loved  both  Klopstock  and  Lessing.  Lessing, 
with  his  serene,  pellucid,  philosophical  mind,  a  mind  at 
once  critical  and  reverent,  had,  it  seemed  to  Guido,  never 
been  justly  appraised  by  his  countrymen.  He  grudged 
German  literature  the  possession  of  "Nathan  the  Wise." 
There  was,  he  thought,  no  loftier  poem  in  any  language, 
not  even  in  English.  Of  all  the  German  poets  he  loved 
Lessing  the  best. 

His  thoughts  turned  to  Schiller,  more  particularly  to 
"Don  Carlos,"  in  which  a  passage  occurs  which  seemed  to 
him  cruelly  fortuitious.  Marquis  Posa  beseeches  Don 
Carlos,  the  unfortunate  son  of  Philip  II,  to  make  an  effort 
to  save  Flanders  from  the  brutalities  of  the  notorious  Alva 
and  from  the  Holy  Inquisition.  The  unforgettably  beautiful 
words  rang  feverishly  in  his  mind: 

"Gethan  ist's  um  ihr  teures  Land,  wenn  Alba, 
Des  Fanatismus  rauher  Henkersknecht, 
Vor  Bruessel  rueckt  mit  spanischen  Gesetzen. 
Auf  Kaiser  Karls  glorwuerd'gem  Enkel  ruht, 
Die  letr.te  Hoffnung  dieser  edeln  Lande. 
Sie  stuerzt  dahin,  wenn  sein  erhabenes  Hers 
Vergessen  hat,  fuer  Menschlichkeit  zu  schlagen." 

And  now  Germany,  the  same  Germany  that  uses  the  name 
of  "Marquis  Posa"  as  a  generic  name  for  embodied  ideal 
ism,  in  the  identical  way  that  the  English-speaking  world 
applies  the  name  "Sherlock  Holmes"  as  a  generic  name  to 
all  detectives,  was,  in  the  name  of  culture,  pillaging,  mas- 
sacering,  raping  the  same  Flanders  whose  plight  in  an 
earlier  century  had  evoked  Posa's — or  Schiller's — fiery 
eloquence.  The  Holy  Inquisition  then — now,  German 
culture  I 


460  THE  HYPHEN 

Guido  felt  sick  and  cold. 

Shades  of  Schiller  and  Goethe,  of  Herder,  Lessing, 
Klopstock,  Novalis,  and  phantasm  of  Ludwig  Fulda — who 
alone  among  living  authors  upholds  the  ancient  German 
idealism — what  had  come  over  Germany?  Could  the  devil 
enter  into  an  entire  nation?  Was  there  a  devil?  Small 
wonder  that  in  ancient  times  the  belief  in  devils  and  witches 
had  been  resorted  to  to  explain  the  otherwise  inexplicable. 
How  else  could  one 

Guido  did  not  conclude  his  meditation.  Blocking  his 
path,  hand  outstretched,  stood  Egon  von  Dammer.  Egon 
had  added  several  inches  to  his  stature  in  the  brief  interim 
in  which  Guido  had  not  seen  him.  Slender  he  had  always 
been,  and  the  aristocratic  air  which  from  a  child  he  had 
worn  like  a  garment  had  lost  none  of  its  potent  charm  by 
the  change  in  his  height.  His  delicately  white  hands,  well- 
manicured  as  those  of  a  lady  of  fashion,  his  peach-blow 
complexion,  eye-brows  that  were  no  enemy  to  the  pencil's 
art,  the  mustache  which  was  sending  out  its  first  tender, 
blond  shoots,  the  insolent  expression  of  the  boyish  face, 
squared  shoulders  and  tapering  waist,  all  seemed  to  pro 
claim,  "Behold,  I  am  not  one  of  the  common  people.  I 
belong  to  the  ruling  class.  I  am  Egon  von  Dammer." 

"Hauser,"  he  cried,  "in  the  name  of  all  that  is  wonder 
ful,  where  have  you  been  keeping  yourself?"  His  manner 
was  one  of  exaggerated  cordiality.  Guido  smiled.  Race 
again.  Cecil,  on  meeting  him  unexpectedly  after  a  long 
absence,  would  have  pretended  to  frostiness.  "I  went  up 
to  the  house,"  Egon  continued,  "and  was  told  that  Frau 
Hauser  and  der  junge  Herr  were  at  present  at  the  Anas- 
quoit  Hotel.  There  I  was  told  that  a  Mrs.  Hauser  and 
a  Mr.  von  Estritz  were  living  there,  but  no  Mr.  Hauser. 
Where  in  heaven's  name  do  you  keep  yourself?  Why 
aren't  you  living  at  home?  Or  with  your  mother?" 

Guido  laughed.  He  could  not  suppress  a  feeling  of 
satisfaction.  He  knew  with  precisely  what  exclamations 
Egon  would  greet  the  news.  And  Egon  did  not  disappoint 
him. 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  Guido  had  briefly  told  him  of  his 
change  in  name,  "all  I  can  say  is  that  I  told  you  years 
ago  that  a  fellow  by  the  name  of  Guido  had  no  business 
to  have  'Hauser'  hitched  on  as  a  surname,  or  that  it  was 


YOUTH  461 

an  impertinence  for  a  'Hauser*  to  have  helped  himself  to 
the  name  'Guido.'  Glad  you  came  into  your  own,  old 
chap." 

"And  how  do  you  happen  to  come  back  to  these  United 
States  at  a  time  when  the  Fatherland  is  impressing  her 
entire  man-power?" 

"My  father  is  an  American  citizen,  as  you  will  recall." 

One  cannot  recall  something  one  has  never  known,  and 
so  Guido  told  Egon. 

Egon  laughed. 

"I'm  afraid  I  disapproved  of  my  father's  change  from 
a  German  subject  to  an  American  citizen  in  the  olden  days," 
he  said,  lightly.  "I  know  better  now.  Heavens,  Guido, 
I've  been  away  only  half  a  year.  It  seems  six  years,  not 
six  months." 

"You  do  not  seem  very  enthusiastic  in  the  German 
cause." 

"Enthusiastic!  My  dear  chap,  one  feels  for  one's  own. 
But,  frankly,  I'd  rather  be  on  American  soil  to-day  than 
on  German.  And  most  emphatically,  I  do  not  join  the 
chorus  of  indignant  voices  who  chide  America  for  being 
pro-British  and  pro-French.  Most  natural  thing  in  the 
world — that.  So  I  told  Otto  when  he  informed  me  in 
tears  of  your  'most  unnatural  attitude.'  " 

Guido  flushed.  Egon's  words  did  not  ring  entirely  true. 
Nevertheless  Guido  generously  accepted  them  at  face 
value. 

"I  am  glad  you  realize  that  this  is  humanity's  war  and 
that  our  country — self -evidently — must  take  the  stand  she 
does,"  he  said. 

Egon  laughed  his  old  supercilious,  arrogant  laugh. 

"Don't  jump  at  conclusions,  von  Estritz,"  he  said.  "I 
said  nothing  about  'humanity's  war.'  Poppycock.  Tom- 
myrot.  It's  a  commercial  war.  C'est  tout,  mon  ami." 
Egon's  manner  as  he  addressed  Guido  by  his  new  name  was 
indescribable.  Thus  might  a  king  have  addressed  a  confrere 
but  recently  risen  from  the  ranks  of  commoner.  It  con 
veyed  distinction.  It  was  replete  with  delicate  homage, 
the  homage  which  equal  extend  to  equal,  and  in  extending 
flatters  himself  and  his  own  rank  as  well  as  his  friend's. 
Guido  was  amused.  But  his  amusement  was  tinctured  with 


462  THE  HYPHEN 

a  subtle  satisfaction.  He  would  not  have  been  young  and 
human  if  it  had  been  otherwise. 

"Spare  me  the  rest,  von  Dammer,"  said  Guido. 

"England " 

"Don't!" 

"England  is  America's  mother-country.  America  and 
England  quarreled.  You  beat  England.  The  daughter 
established  her  independence.  The  old  feud  is  forgotten. 
Your  language,  your  traditions,  your  preliminary  history 
are  the  same  as  England's.  In  the  South  old  English  ex 
pressions,  such  as  'gallery'  for  'veranda'  and  'penstafF 
for  'penholder,'  still  persist." 

"And  how  do  you  know  all  that?"  Guido  demanded,  in 
surprise. 

"I  have  heard  my  honored  parent  discourse,"  said  Egon, 
laughing,  "and  he,  as  you  know,  led  a  nomadic  existence 
before  we  came  to  Anasquoit.  So  much  for  England.  As 
for  France,  your  sister- republic,  it  is  natural  your  sympathy 
should  go  to  her." 

"Our  sympathy  goes  to  France  and  England  because  they 
are  right,"  said  Guido. 

"My  dear  fellow,  you're  impossible,  you  really  are.  A 
chap  with  a  name  like  'von  Estritz'  ought  not  to  play  the 
simpleton.  He  really  ought  not.  You  don't  want  to  in 
dulge  in  all  the  cheap  sentiment  which  delights  the 
plebeian." 

"Do  you  consider  a  regard  for  right  and  wrong  a  plebeian 
attribute?"  Guido  demanded,  hotly.  Try  as  he  would,  he 
could  not  resist  a  flutter  of  pride  in  Egon's  new  manner 
to  him,  in  Egon's  implication  that  his  birth  raised  him  to 
a  higher  level  than  his  compeers.  He  crushed  back  the 
feeling  ruthlessly.  But  its  existence  opened  new  vistas  of 
speculation  to  him.  He  perceived  that  in  the  absence  of 
a  strong  democratic  brake,  such  as  after  all  was  his  inalien 
able  birthright  and  priceless  heritage,  this  feeling  of  caste- 
pride  must  become  invincibly  strong.  This  sense  of  pride, 
involuntary  as  it  was  and  remorselessly  as  he  dealt  with  it, 
troubled  his  conscience  not  a  little.  In  a  moment  of  self- 
abasement  he  had  gone  so  far  as  to  suggest  to  Dr.  Koenig 
that  he  would  drop  the  "von,"  an  act,  which  Dr.  Koenig 
declared,  if  put  into  practice,  would  be  a  bit  of  patronymic 
vandalism  as  bad  as  dropping  the  last  syllable  of  Wash- 


YOUTH  463 

ington;  an  example  which  was  unfortunate,  as  the  trun 
cated  name  of  the  Father  of  his  Country  was  suggestive 
of  a  homely  housewifely  occupation,  and  thus  excited  young 
Mr.  von  Estritz's  risibilities. 

"I  really  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Egon  retorted. 
"Patricians  look  at  life  as  it  is.  The  rabble  want  to  be 
fooled  with  fine  words,  want  to  be  supplied  with  motives 
which  rival  the  moral  equipment  of  the  hero  in  a  melo 
drama." 

"And  the  War— as  it  is " 

"Nothing  but  commercial  rivalry  between  Germany  and 
England,"  said  Egon,  lighting  a  cigarette.  "Germany,  of 
course,  is  going  to  win  out.  It's  good-night  for  England. 
I'm  rather  sorry  for  that.  I  don't  mind  about  Russia  and 
France;  but  England — I  rather  like  old  England.  I  like 
the  English  way  of  doing  things."  Here  Egon  smiled — 
smiled,  Guido  thought,  as  if  certain  particular  reminiscences 
of  the  pleasant  English  way  of  doing  things  lingered  in 
his  mind.  There  was  a  quality  in  Egon's  smile  which  Guido 
did  not  comprehend.  It  was  both  subtle  and  suggestive. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  do  you  play  pinochle  ?"  Egon  demanded. 

"No.    I  don't  care  for  cards." 

"Sorry,  we  are  looking  for  a  fourth  man.  Come  and 
look  on,  anyhow.  We  don't  play  all  evening.  Only  an 
hour  or  so.  Every  Saturday  night.  We're  at  the  McAvoy 
at  present.  We'll  be  back  in  Anasquoit  as  soon  as  we 
find  a  suitable  house." 

"There's  a  vacant  house  corner  of  Maple  and  Main," 
said  Guido. 

"Maple  and  Main!  My  dear  fellow,  what  can  you  be 
thinking  of?  Do  you  think  the  Mater  would  consider  any 
thing  but  Bismarck  Street  ?"  Egon  burst  out  laughing.  He 
laughed  jerkily,  uncouthly.  Almost  it  seemed  as  if  he 
desired  to  impart  the  same  angularity  which  characterized 
his  figure  to  his  manner  of  speaking  and  laughing. 

"My  dear  von  Estritz — I'm  so  glad  it's  Von  Estritz/ 
now,  you  know.  'Hauser'  was  such  a  shabby  name  for  a 
chap  like  yourself  to  travel  under.  Come  and  see  me  at 
the  McAvoy.  I  don't  believe  I  will  come  along  with  my 
parents  if  they  move  back  to  Anasquoit.  I'm  not  the 
least  homesick  for  this  wretched  little  burg  with  all  its 
spiessbuergerliche  pretentiousness.  But  my  estimable  father 


464  THE  HYPHEN 

longs  for  the  fleshpots  of  the  Deutsche  Verein.  I  don't  and 
I  shall  continue  to  live  at  a  hotel  or  take  bachelor  apart 
ments.  My  father  consents.  My  mother  objects.  Mother, 
at  times,  indulges  in  spiessbuergerliche  prejudices.  I'm 
quite  ashamed  of  her." 

"And  what  may  your  mother's  spiessbuergerliche  preju 
dices  be?"  Guido  inquired. 

"Some  day  I  will  tell  you,  Miss  Innocent,"  Egon  re 
torted,  laughing.  "I  have  a  horrid  suspicion  that  you,  too, 
laddie  of  the  sentimental  black  eyes,  cling  to  those  self 
same  ridiculous  prejudices.  If  so,  I  intend  to  cure  you  of 
them." 

"I  really  don't  know  what  you're  gabbing  about,"  said 
Guido,  stiffly.  For  a  boy  whose  mind  was  supposed  to  be 
free  from  all  bias,  it  was  particularly  hard  to  be  accused 
of  so  primitive  a  possession  as  prejudices. 

Egon  von  Dammer  laughed  at  his  own  wit.  He  laughed. 
He  guffawed.  He  chuckled.  He  slapped  Guido  on  the 
back  and  then  chucked  him  under  the  chin,  saying,  "What 
a  good  little  boy  it  is." 

Guido  reddened  with  fury. 

"You're  behaving  like  a  fool,"  he  spurted  out. 

Egon  burst  into  a  new  roar  of  laughter. 

"Prejudices!"  he  cried.  "I'll  name  you  one  of  yours. 
Trying  to  give  away  a  scholarship  that  represents  good 
money  to  that  idiot  of  an  Otto." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  call  Otto  an  idiot,"  Guido 
retorted,  indignantly.  "He  has  a  very  fine  brain.  Besides, 
you  did  the  same — you  handed  the  blame  thing  back  to  me." 

"Exactly,  I  handed  back  what  was  not  mine.  What  you 
tried  to  do  was  quixotic.  What  I  did  was  mere  honesty." 

"Well,  Otto  needed  free  tuition  and  I  didn't." 

"You  needed  money,  my  son,  and  you  gave  away  its 
equivalent." 

"I  have  more  money  than  I  need,"  said  Guido,  still  in 
dignant. 

A  new  ripple  of  laughter  burst  from  Egon. 

"My  son,"  he  said,  "listen  to  the  words  of  the  Sage. 
No  man,  especially  no  young  man,  has  more  money  than 
he  needs.  No,  that's  too  particular.  Neither  young  nor 
old  men  can  possibly  have  more  money  than  they  need. 
For  why?  Ah,  laddie  of  the  honest  black  eyes,  thank  your 


YOUTH  465 

stars  I've  arrived  in  time  to  save  you  from  the  Slough  of 
Spiessenbuergerliche  Respectability.  For  I  am  going  to 
save  you,  in  spite  of  yourself.  I  must  go.  I  really  must. 
Remember,  son,  the  McAvoy.  So  long." 

Guido  parted  from  Egon  in  a  state  of  subtle  dissatis 
faction  and  annoyance.  Egon's  manner  and  words  hinted 
at  some  extended  experience  which  to  Guido  was  a  sealed 
book.  Inexperience  in  affairs  of  the  heart  is  particularly 
galling  to  the  young,  and  to  have  his  monumental  inex 
perience  thrust  at  him  in  so  insolent  a  fashion  was  morti 
fying  in  the  extreme.  Guido  tried  to  wrap  himself  in  a 
proud  air  of  moral  disdain,  but  curiosity,  that  attribute 
which  expunged  the  human  race  from  Paradise,  had  been 
aroused  and  was  assiduously  employing  itself  in  the  vain 
endeavor  to  fathom  just  what  sort  of  experiences  Egon 
had  garnered.  He  could  not  help  but  think  them  dis 
creditable.  Witness  Egon's  comments  upon  the  value  of 
money.  Guide's  better  nature  awoke.  His  disgust  became 
real.  He  dismissed  that  portion  of  his  friend's  talk  from 
his  mind. 

Egon's  seeming  indifference  to  the  War  was  a  more 
perplexing  and  inviting  problem.  Guido  did  not  entirely 
trust  Egon's  show  of  indifference.  Guido  knew  what  Stan 
would  say  to  him  on  hearing  of  Egon's  reappearance: 
"Steer  clear  of  that  fellow,  Guy.  He's  n.  g.  You'll  come  to 
grief  through  him  yet,  just  you  mark  my  word." 

He  decided  not  to  tell  Stan  that  he  had  seen  Egon  and 
in  the  same  breath  resolved  to  avoid  Egon.  The  first 
resolution  he  kept — for  a  while.  The  second  he  broke — 
after  a  while. 

On  reaching  home,  he  found  his  mother  vexed  and  cross. 
This  was  the  rarest  of  moods  for  her.  Guido  thought  at 
first  that  it  was  caused  by  his  tardiness  for  supper,  but 
during  the  course  of  the  meal  he  learned  the  truth.  Since 
leaving  her  husband,  Frau  Ursula  had  studiously  avoided 
the  coffee-parties  which  she  had  formerly  attended  and 
given  to  please  Hauser.  Shortly  after  Guido  had  left  the 
hotel  with  Mrs.  Erdman,  Tante  Baumgarten,  her  kind  face 
shining  with  the  simple-hearted  eagerness  of  a  child,  had 
called,  and  had  informed  Frau  Ursula  that  her  coffee-circle 
friends  had  decided  to  give  her  a  coffee,  here  in  her  own 
rooms.  Frau  Ursula  had  not  had  the  heart  to  refuse. 


466  THE  HYPHEN 

Tante  Baumgarten  had  been  so  pleased  at  the  prospect  of 
a  party.  Tante  Baumgarten  was  single-mindedness  itself. 
One  could  see  where  Otto  had  gotten  that  trait  from.  But, 
somehow,  Frau  Ursula  could  not  help  thinking  at  times  that 
single-mindedness  was  not  the  unqualified  virtue  it  was 
thought  to  be.  Lacking  it,  Tante  Baumgarten  might  have 
understood  the  subtler  shades  of  Frau  Ursula's  ordeal. 

"A  sort  of  surprise  party  with  the  surprise  left  out," 
said  Guido,  laughing. 

Frau  Ursula  frowned. 

"What  else  did  Tante  Baumgarten  have  to  say?" 

"Oh,  they  hope  to  be  back  on  Bismarck  Street  by  the 
first  of  May.  Poor  thing.  I  believe  she  lies  awake  nights 
worrying  about  their  fall  from  the  exalted  heights  of  Bis 
marck  Street." 

Guido,  remembering  Egon's  comments,  burst  out  laugh 
ing.  He  related  his  meeting  with  Egon,  his  narrative,  of 
course,  being  duly  edited  by  the  blue  pencil  of  nicety. 

The  coffee-party  came  off  the  following  week.  Guido 
announced  his  intention  repeatedly  of  not  coming  home  that 
afternoon  before  six-thirty,  the  dinner-hour.  Frau  Ursula, 
a  little  maliciously,  refrained  from  reminding  him  on 
Wednesday  morning  that  the  day  of  the  coffee  had  arrived, 
and  the  luckless  boy  on  returning  from  college  at  four 
o'clock,  walked  into  a  phalanx  of  two  dozen  buxom  dames, 
all  of  them,  with  the  exception  of  Tante  Baumgarten,  of 
Bismarck  Street,  and  sedulous  disciples  of  Teuton  ortho 
doxy.  A  perfect  gale  of  flattering  expletives  sang  about 
his  ears  as  he  entered  the  room,  inwardly  cursing  the 
trick  his  memory  had  played  him.  Such  a  fine  young 
man !  And  so  tall !  And  how  did  it  feel  to  be  a  von 
Estritz  instead  of  a  Hauser?  So  romantic!  Where  would 
he  sit?  Oh,  he  must  sit.  They  all  made  room  for  him, 
or  tried  to.  Two  corpulent  dowagers  telescoped  their 
chairs  in  the  endeavor  to  do  so,  and  violently  abraded  their 
backs,  a  humorous  accident  which  caused  explosive  ejacu 
lations  of  blended  sympathy  and  laughter. 

Guido  threw  his  mother  a  vicious  look  and  received  in 
return  a  mischievous  glance  which  said  as  plainly  as  words : 
"You  can't  run  away,  you  know.  You  have  simply  got 
to  go  through  with  it." 

In  despair,  since  his  mother  would  not  connive  at  his 


YOUTH  467 

escape,  he  collapsed  upon  a  chair  between  Frau  Pfennigwert 
and  Frau  Dinkellager,  and  submitted  to  the  further  humilia 
tion  of  seeing  his  plate  piled  high  by  the  two  ladies  as  if 
he  had  been  a  very  little  boy.  Although  he  was  very  fond 
of  cake,  he  feigned  a  stoical  indifference  to  the  pastries 
and  jam-tarts  and  mocha-cakes  which  graced  his  plate, 
contenting  himself  with  eating  one  small  piece  of  Konfekt. 
The  ice-cream  there  was  no  shame  in  eating.  Why  shame 
should  have  attached  to  the  eating  of  cake  and  not  to  the 
eating  of  ice-cream,  he  could  not  have  said,  excepting  that 
ice-cream  was  supposed  to  quench  thirst  rather  than  ap 
pease  hunger,  and  thirst  was  a  legitimate  attribute  of  the 
adult  while  hunger  was  not. 

The  majority  of  the  ladies  were  me  proud  possessors  of 
titles.  Frau  Pfennigwert  was  the  wife  of  a  doctor.  She 
was  therefore  addressed  as  Frau  Doktor.  Frau  Dinkel 
lager  was  the  wife  of  a  Professor  of  Chemistry.  She  was 
therefore  addressed  as  Frau  Professor.  Frau  Kuehneman 
was  the  wife  of  the  new  Direktor  of  the  Deutsch-Ameri- 
kanische  Real-Schule.  She  consequently  was  equipped  with 
the  title  of  Frau  Schuldirektor.  And  so  on  and  so  on. 
There  was  a  Frau  Oberlehrer  and  a  Frau  Pfarrer  and  a 
Frau  Apotheker.  The  German  love  of  titles  was  in  full 
swing  in  the  little  town  of  Anasquoit. 

All  the  ladies  had  donated  either  their  services  or  money 
or  both  to  the  German  Red  Cross  Bazaar,  and  all  had 
visited  it  and  driven  nails  into  the  Hindenburg  statue  and 
watched  their  husbands  practice  in  the  rifle-gallery,  where 
the  movable  targets  were  dummies  dressed  in  the  uniforms 
of  French,  English  and  Belgian  soldiers.  Frau  Dinkel 
lager  related  with  great  glee  that  her  husband  had  thrice 
hit  an  Englishman — "dreimal  einem  verfluchten  Englaender 
ein's  hingehauen,"  her  husband  had  said.  Frau  Trojan- 
schmidt  thereupon  expressed  the  pious  wish  that  Herr 
Dinkellager  instead  of  shooting  mere  dummies,  had  killed 
as  many  real  Englishmen.  Frau  Pfennigwert  contributed 
the  brilliant  remark  that  she  supposed  everybody  present 
wished  the  same. 

"Well,"  said  Guido,  electrifying  the  four  and  twenty 
dames  and  his  mother  as  well,  "I  don't."  Some  of  the  ladies 
began  to  titter.  Others  exchanged  significant  glances.  A 
few  looked  uneasy. 


468  THE  HYPHEN 

"You  know,"  Guido  continued,  "my  mother  and  myself 
are  pro-Ally." 

"Impossible!"  "Unbelievable!"  "You  are  jesting!" 
"Why,  your  mother  is  a  German!"  "And  you  are  a 
German !" 

"German  or  not,  we  are  pro-Ally,"  said  Guido.  He  no 
longer  bothered  to  set  Germans  right  as  to  his  nationality. 

"Is  that  the  reason,  Hebe  Frau  Hauser,  why  you  refused 
to  help  in  my  booth  at  the  Bazaar?"  Frau  Dinkellager  in 
quired. 

"Not  entirely,"  said  Frau  Ursula.  "My  own  affairs 
were  so  unsettled  at  the  time  that  I  was  unable  to  help 
you.  Otherwise,  inasmuch  as  our  own  country  is  neutral, 
I  would  have  seen  no  impropriety  in  helping  to  provide  for 
the  German  widows  and  orphans." 

"Our  own  country  a  neutral?  Germany  a  neutral?" 
Tante  Baumgarten  exclaimed  in  comic  bewilderment. 

"Sssss!"  said  her  neighbor.  "Frau  Hauser  means  the 
United  States,  of  course." 

"And  how  do  you  and  your  dear  mother  happen  to  be 
pro- Ally,  Herr  von  Estritz?"  Frau  Pfennigwert  inquired. 

"We  happen  to  be  pro-Ally  because  the  Allies  happen  to 
be  right,"  Guido  retorted  with  such  an  air  of  sublime  aloof 
ness  that  Frau  Pfennigwert,  in  discussing  the  incident  later 
on  with  Frau  Dinkellager,  designated  Guido  an  "em  frecher 
Bengel"  a  phrase  untranslatable  into  English  unreinforced 
by  Billingsgate. 

"You  have  been  misinformed,  I  see,"  Frau  Pfennigwert 
rejoined,  coldly. 

"Perhaps  others,  and  not  we,  have  been  misinformed," 
Guido  suggested,  glancing  furtively  at  his  mother.  She 
avoided  his  eye,  and  he  took  this  as  a  happy  omen.  Sweet 
contrariety  of  human  nature!  All  his  chagrin  at  having 
blundered  into  this  array  of  jabbering  females — the  phrase 
is  Guide's  own — disappeared.  He  became  quite  contented 
to  be  where  he  was,  and  in  his  contentment  he  forgot  his 
resolution  not  to  touch  the  pyramid  of  cake  on  his  plate. 
He  not  merely  ate  thereof  but  finished  the  entire  pile,  all 
of  which  further  demonstrates  the  truth  of  the  statement 
made  once  or  twice  before  in  the  course  of  this  history: 
Guido  was  no  saint. 

Tante   Baumgarten,   peace-loving   soul   as   she   was,   to 


YOUTH  469 

break  the  glacial  silence  that  had  fallen,  cast  about  for 
something  to  say. 

"Do  you  know,  Frau  Doktor,"  she  addressed  Frau 
Pfennigwert,  "that  we  have  in  view  a  house  of  suitable 
dimensions  on  Bismarck  Street?" 

The  Baumgarten  house  of  suitable  dimensions  on  Bis 
marck  Street  had  been  the  standing  joke  of  Anasquoit 
for  the  last  half -decade.  Several  ladies  began  to  talk 
simultaneously,  but  not  in  unison.  It  was  Bedlam  let 
loose.  Guido  contrived  to  follow  the  conversation  of  the  two 
ladies  between  whom  he  was  sitting,  and  who  talked  across 
him  quite  unceremoniously.  They  were  showing  each  other 
their  iron  rings,  obtained  from  the  German  Red  Cross  in 
return  for  their  jewelry.  All  the  ladies,  almost,  had  an 
iron  ring  and  now  displayed  it  with  justifiable  pride.  When 
Frau  Theaterdirektor  Reinhardt,  however,  displayed  hers, 
a  cry  of  mingled  astonishment  and  dismay  arose. 

Frau  Reinhardt  was  the  youngest  woman  present  as  she 
was  by  far  the  prettiest.  She  was  very  smartly  gowned. 
She  had  been  an  actress  before  she  married,  a  fact  which 
stirred  a  variety  of  emotions  in  the  breasts  of  the  fair 
Anasquoitians.  There  had  been  a  tendency  on  the  part 
of  some  of  the  ladies  to  make  an  attempt  to  debar  her 
from  Anasquoit  Society,  and  to  close  to  her  the  sacred 
portals  of  the  Deutsche  Verein,  but  Frau  Theaterdirektor 
owned  a  pair  of  beautiful  heliotrope-colored  eyes  and  knew 
how  to  use  them.  And  use  them  she  did,  with  the  result 
that  the  gentlemen  of  Anasquoit  allowed  themselves  to  be 
fettered  and  gagged  long  before  their  amiable  spouses  had 
decided  that  guerrilla  warfare  would  be  more  effectual  than 
an  open  campaign  in  waging  war  against  so  insidious  an 
enemy.  A  few  fair  Anasquoitans  attempted  to  cut  her 
at  the  opening  ball  of  the  season,  and  had  the  same  ex 
perience  that  befell  the  Prince  of  Wales  upon  one  memorable 
occasion — they  found  themselves  cut  instead.  Thereupon 
they  bowed  to  the  inevitable,  and  found  compensation  for 
their  defeat  in  the  fruitful  subjects  for  gossip  furnished 
them  continually  by  the  pretty  young  wife  of  the  Theater 
direktor. 

The  jewelry  of  which  she  had  apparently  disposed  for 
"patriotic"  reasons  had  constituted  an  exceedingly  fruitful 
source  of  gossip  in  Anasquoit.  Who  had  given  it  to  her? 


470  THE  HYPHEN 

Her  husband?  Surely  not.  Dear,  kind,  lovable  Herr 
Theaterdirektor  was  a  genius,  positively  a  genius,  and 
quite  without  a  peer  at  stage  management  and  repertory 
work  and  in  the  selection  of  Kraefte.  But,  heavens  and 
earth!  Everybody  knew  that  Herr  Hauser,  and  Herr 
Schuldirektor  (who  had  married  a  rich  wife)  and  Herr 
Fabrikant  Schulze  and  Herr  Duden  and  Herr  Boelke,  were 
continually  making  donations  to  the  Universal  Theater, 
which  alone  saved  the  Herr  Theaterdirektkor  from  going 
into  insolvency.  Whence,  then,  the  jewelry?  The  diamond 
tiara?  The  wonderful  rope  of  pearls?  The  amethysts 
and  emeralds?  The  ruby  and  seed  pearl  necklace  and  ear 
rings?  And  was  all  this  marvelous  jewelry  actually  cast 
into  the  melting  pot  of  the  German  Red  Cross  ?  Had  Frau 
Theaterdirektor  mayhap  made  the  sacrifice  believing  that 
so  laudible  and  exalted  a  destination  might  wipe  away 
whatever  stains  accrued  to  the  jewelry — and  to  her  honor? 

Several  of  the  ladies  were  so  touched  by  the  thought 
which  obviously  suggested  itself  to  all  that  they  almost 
wept. 

And  meanwhile  they  bewailed  the  loss  of  the  beautiful 
stones  and  lauded  the  patriotism  which  had  given  so 
lavishly,  and  hailed  Germany  as  thrice-happy  that,  on 
foreign  shores  and  in  distant  climes,  she  might  command 
such  sacrificial  devotion. 

Guido  sat  with  downcast  eyes.  Presently  Frau  Theater 
direktor  rose,  and,  as  if  embarrassed  by  the  enthusiasm  of 
which  she  was  the  storm-center,  wandered  away  to  the 
window  to  admire  some  begonias  which  were  lasting  through 
the  winter.  On  her  lips  was  a  peculiar,  obscure  smile. 
Guido  noiselessly  slid  back  his  chair  and  joined  her.  Im 
mediately  the  noisy  chatter  behind  them  poured  itself  into 
different  channels. 

"Frau  Th  eater  dire  ktor !" 

"Herr  von  Estritz!" 

"I  would  like  to  relate  an  incident  of  my  extreme 
youth." 

"I  am  consumed  with  curiosity." 

"One  day,  at  one  of  my  mother's  coffees,  I  noticed  a 
wonderful  amethyst  necklace  of  one  of  the  guests.  I  also 
noticed  the  lady's  beauty." 

"Flatterer!" 


YOUTH  471 

"To  tell  truth  is  not  to  flatter.  Do  not  blame  me  if 
truth,  in  this  instance,  is  flattering.  I  am  relating  a  story 
— a  true  story.  After  the  ladies  were  gone,  in  walking 
across  the  floor,  I  felt  my  heel  grind  into  something  hard, 
and  I  was  horrified  to  perceive  that  I  had  stepped  heavily 
upon  a  very  large,  beautiful  amethyst,  which,  apparently, 
had  dropped  from  a  loose  setting." 

"Delightful !"  cried  the  young  woman.  "I  am  more  than 
curious  to  hear  the  end  of  your  story.  Why  did  you  not 
return  the  stone  to  me,  like  an  honest  little  boy?" 

"That,  of  course,  was  my  first  impulse.  But  the  heel 
of  my  heavy  boy's  boot  seemed  to  have  injured  the  stone 
in  some  way.  It  had  become  dull.  So  I  decided  to  take 
it  to  a  jeweler's  in  New  York,  who  knew  me  and  to  whom 
I  could  explain  my  predicament.  I  did  this,  asking  him 
to  procure  me  a  stone  just  like  the  one  which  I  had  in 
advertently  stepped  upon,  promising  to  pay  half  the  sum 
in  cash  at  once  and  the  balance  in  instalments  out  of  my 
generous  quarterly  allowance." 

"What  happened?"  Frau  Theaterdirektor  demanded, 
breathlessly. 

"Do  you  really  wish  me  to  go  on?" 

"I  do,  I  do,  indeed." 

"The  jeweler,  after  examining  the  stone,  informed  me 
that  it  was  paste." 

"And  then " 

"I  was  very  miserable.  You  may  laugh" — the  lady,  how 
ever,  was  not  laughing  now — "I  spent  two  miserable 
nights  before  I  was  able  to  make  up  my  mind  what  to  do. 
I  was  in  a  desperate  plight.  That  paste  amethyst  repre 
sents  one  of  the  tragedies  of  my  childhood." 

"How  old  were  you?" 

"Fourteen." 

"Pray,  go  on." 

"I  thought  of  buying  a  new  paste  amethyst,  and  return 
ing  that  to  you.  And  then  I  thought  I  would  buy  a  genuine 
stone  and  send  you  that.  Finally  I  decided  that  the  safest 
way  to  spare  you  embarrassment  was  to  do  nothing  and  to 
say  nothing." 

"And  you  took  no  one  into  your  confidence?  Not  even 
your  mother?" 

"Not  even  my  mother." 


472  THE  HYPHEN 

"I  applaud  your  tact.  But  I'm  enormously  interested 
in  learning  why  you  told  me  all  this  now." 

"Pure  unselfishness.  I  wanted  to  increase  your  pleasure 
in  the  innocent  trick  you  have  played  upon  these  ladies  by 
letting  you  know  that  someone  shares  your  secret.  It  was 
really  too  good  to  keep,  now  wasn't  it?" 

The  lady  laughed.  She  laughed  so  heartily  that  she  half- 
closed  her  eyes  and  threw  back  her  head  to  facilitate 
cachination.  She  had  been  famous  for  her  stage  laughter 
and  it  had  lost  none  of  its  ancient  charm.  She  was  very 
pretty  when  she  laughed — it  was  rumored  that  she  had 
practiced  her  laughter  for  hours  before  a  mirror — and  Guido 
found  himself  wondering  whether  her  throat  was  as  soft 
to  the  touch  as  to  the  eye. 

The  chatter  at  the  table  almost  ceased.  Sentences  were 
ruthlessly  torn  in  two,  their  frayed  ends  remorselessly  left 
hanging  in  mid-air.  Lips  fumbled  for  words  with  which 
to  complete  phrases  to  which  no  one  was  listening.  Guido 
and  the  wife  of  the  Theaterdirektor  held  the  center  of  the 
stage. 

The  boy  had  begun  to  laugh,  also,  for  laughter  is  con- 
tageous. 

Finally  the  lady  regained  her  composure.  Sly,  envious, 
malicious  glances  darted  her  way.  Conversation  at  the 
table  was  resumed  without  haste  and  without  zest. 

"Mein  junger  Herr  von  Estritz,"  Frau  Theaterdirektor 
said  at  last,  "allow  me  to  tell  you  that  you  are  the  most 
impertinent,  adorable,  utterly  delicious  boy  I  have  ever  met. 
And  that  is  saying  a  good  deal." 

"I  am  overwhelmed!"  our  hero  murmured,  and  bowed. 
Mischievousness  prompted  him  to  imitate  the  Wesendonck 
and  von  Dammer  bow.  He  wondered  how  the  unwonted 
genuflection  would  succeed.  It  came  off  beautifully. 

"Thus,"  he  quoth,  "hath  one  tragedy  of  life  turned  itself 
into  a  comedy.  Is  that  the  fate  of  all  tragedies,  schoene 
Dame?  I  was  very  much  in  love  with  you,  then." 

"You  were — let  me  see — how  old  did  you  say  you  were  ?" 

"Fourteen." 

"And  now?" 

"I  am  seventeen." 

"I  wish  you  were  fourteen  still  and  had  retained  some 
of  your  moods." 


YOUTH  473 

"Perhaps  I  have." 

"Which?" 

Guido  laughed  and  the  lady  laughed.  Their  glances  in 
terlocked  pleasurably. 

"That  would  be  telling,"  he  said. 

"I'll  talk  to  you  no  longer,"  said  the  lady.  "If  I  do  I 
shall  succumb  to  the  temptation  which  I  felt  once  before 
— when  you  rode  rough-shod  over  the  sensibilites  of  all 
those  dreadful  old  women — I  shall  kiss  you." 

"I  have  not  the  least  objection." 

"Here?" 

"You  suggested  it,"  said  Guido,  adding,  "I  doubledare 
you." 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  the  lady,  "I  have  never  taken  a 
dare  in  my  life.  And  a  double  dare.  And  from  a  mere 
infant.  You  are  a  very,  very  naughty  boy,  mein  junger 
Herr." 

"You  like  naughty  boys,  don't  you?"  Guido  demanded. 

"I  am  going."  The  lady  flounced  away  from  the  window, 
and,  going  back  to  the  table,  thrust  a  tempestuous  general 
adieu  into  the  midst  of  the  assemblage,  shaking  hands  with 
Frau  Ursula,  and  tapping  one  or  two  other  ladies  lightly 
on  the  back  as  she  passed  them.  At  the  end  of  the  table 
she  turned  quickly  and  faced  Guido. 

"Verehrte,  Hebe  Frau  Hauser,"  she  called  out,  and  not 
only  Frau  Ursula  but  every  other  woman  in  the  room 
gave  her  an  undivided  attention,  "I  hope  you  will  pardon 
me.  I  really  must  kiss  this  dear  little  lad  of  yours.  He 
is  such  a  baby  still."  And  taking  Guide's  face  between 
her  hands  she  implanted  upon  his  mouth  a  kiss,  a  manner 
of  kiss  the  boy  had  never  received  before,  a  manner  of 
kiss  the  very  existence  of  which  he  had  never  dreamed  of. 
Then,  totally  unmoved  by  the  consternation,  indignation 
and  amazement  mirrored  in  the  faces  that  surrounded  her, 
she  tripped  airily  from  the  room. 

Guido  felt  shaken,  queer,  frightened  and  faint,  all  in 
one.  Odd  sensations  traversed  body  and  soul.  To  his 
surprise  he  had  not  reddened.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  a 
curious  sense  of  having  turned  very  white  and  that  a  new, 
hitherto  unknown  expression  had  invaded  his  eyes.  He 
could  not  have  pictured  the  expression  and  yet  he  knew  it 
was  there  and  that  an  entirely  new  feeling  underlay  it.  He 


474  THE  HYPHEN 

felt  as  if  his  eyes  had  become  larger,  and  still  larger — 
as  large  as  saucers.  He  walked  the  length  of  the  room 
on  limbs  that  seemed  strangely  unsteady,  as  if  he  had  been 
ill  for  a  long  time.  He  had  come  around  to  his  mother, 
and  as  he  sat  down  he  noticed  that  his  hands  trembled. 
Then,  because  he  thought  that  the  trembling  of  his  hand 
must  be  apparent  to  all,  he  flushed  furiously.  To  add  to 
his  discomfiture,  he  perceived  that  his  mother  was  angry, 
very,  very  angry. 

Not  until  the  last  of  the  guests  was  gone,  and  the  waiters 
had  removed  the  dishes  and  the  cloth,  did  Frau  Ursula 
give  rein  to  her  anger. 

"I  am  ashamed  of  you,"  she  said.  "If  that  is  the  way 
you  are  going  to  behave  when  you  begin  going  into  society, 
you  are  going  to  disgrace  me." 

"Why,  Mother,  what  did  I  do?" 

Frau  Ursula  glared  at  him.  Then,  without  answering, 
she  pushed  a  chair  into  place.  Anger  had  translated  itself 
into  excess  muscular  energy,  and  the  chair  lurched  forward 
within  two  inches  of  the  blazing  grate  fire.  Guido  drew 
it  back  quickly  and  repeated  the  question. 

"Mother,  what  did  I  do  ?  I  did  not  kiss  her.  She  kissed 
me." 

"You  said  things  that  led  up  to  the  situation.  Don't 
deny  it.  It  takes  two  to  make  a  quarrel  and  it  takes  two 
to  kiss.  Heaven  knows  what  you  said  to  her  all  the  while 
you  were  talking  to  her  alone.  You  did  almost  all  the 
talking.  The  brazen  hussy!"  And  Frau  Ursula,  gentle, 
refined,  well-bred,  low-voiced  Frau  Ursula  continued  to 
uncork  the  spill  of  such  vials  of  wrath  upon  Guide's  head 
that  the  boy,  his  very  sensibility  outraged  and  shocked, 
could  only  murmur: 

"Oh,  Mutterchen,  Mutterchen,  please!" 

He  was  at  loss  to  understand  why  his  mother  was  so 
frantically  angry.  He  did  not  for  one  moment  suppose 
that  his  mother  knew  anything  at  all  about  the  sort  of 
kiss  with  which  Frau  Theater  direktor  had  regaled  him.  To 
think  so  would  be  to  insult  her.  He  was  really  a  very 
innocent  boy. 

The  man  that  was  to  be  was  a  little  amused  at  her 
wrath.  The  boy  that  had  been  was  a  little  frightened. 
Wedged  in  between  the  two,  the  youth  that  was  regarded 


YOUTH  475 

the  spectacle  wonderingly.  Suddenly,  out  of  the  vortex 
of  conflicting  emotions  arose  a  strange  sensation  of  pride. 
Pride  in  what  ?  He  could  not  have  said.  In  having  gained 
an  experience?  When  next  he  met  Egon  von  Dammer — 
in  the  flush  of  the  moment  he  forgot  his  virtuous  resolu 
tion  to  see  nothing  of  his  former  school-mate — there  would 
be  two  who  could  play  at  the  game  of  pretending  unutter 
able  things. 

Frau  Ursula's  wrath  was  abating.  That  gentle  soul 
could  never  nurse  anger  for  any  length  of  time.  Least  of 
all  against  Guido.  Guido,  perceiving  that  low-tide  had 
set  in,  stationed  himself  behind  her  chair  and  bent  down 
to  kiss  her. 

"No,  don't  kiss  me.  If  you  allow  women  like  that  to 
kiss  you  I  must  decline  to  share  the  honor  with  them." 

Guido  had  an  inspiration. 

"Mother,  be  reasonable.  What  would  you  have  had  me 
do?  Draw  back?  Resist  her?  Say,  'No,  no,  my  mamma 
wouldn't  like  to  have  you  to  kiss  me?'  And  stick  my 
finger  in  my  mouth?" 

Frau  Ursula  wanted  to  laugh — but  she  didn't. 

"I  really  don't  know  what  has  come  over  you,  Guido," 
she  said. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  when  I  heard  all  that  jawing  and  jazz 
ing " 

"Jawing  and  jazzing!"  Frau  Ursula  repeated  the  Eng 
lish  slang  which  Guido  had  so  brutally  dragged  into  his 
correct  German  sentence  gingerly,  as  if  she  feared  that 
it  might  injure  her  tongue. 

"I  suppose  the  devil  got  into  me.  Mother,  do  you  be 
lieve  in  a  devil,  a  real,  live  devil?" 

"I  decline  to  discuss  religion  with  you  while  you  are 
in  this  flippant  mood." 

"As  far  as  I  know  religion  has  never  been  discussed 
with  me,"  said  Guido.  "Perhaps,  if  it  had,  and  if  I  hadn't 
been  brought  up  on  the  milk  and  pap  of  No-Bias,  I  would 
have  known  better  than  to  misbehave  to-day.  I  say, 
Mother,  let's  drop  the  subject." 

"Have  you  thought  what  all  those  women  are  going  to 
say  about  you?  The  yarns  they  will  tell?  Tante  Baum- 
garten?  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  Otto  were  to  inform 


476  THE  HYPHEN 

you  to-night  or  to-morrow  that  his  father  insists  upon  his 
not  associating  with  you  any  more." 

"Bother  the  Baumgartens." 

"Have  you  thought  what  Elschen  Marlow  would  say  if 
she  knew?" 

"I  don't  care  a  rap  what  Elschen  Marlow  thinks  of  me," 
he  asserted  stoutly.  But  his  cheeks  crimsoned,  as  Frau 
Ursula  perceived  with  satisfaction.  She  felt  assured  that 
she  had  touched  his  conscience  at  last. 

She  was  mistaken.  Guido  did  not  care  what  Elschen 
thought  of  him.  But  the  mention  of  her  name,  by  one 
of  the  unexplained,  esoteric  laws  of  the  soul,  had  conjured 
up  a  vision  of  Janet.  And  immediately  pride  and  defiance 
and  amusement  shriveled  away  into  merest  nothingness. 
And  in  their  place  came  shame  and  mortification. 

Was  he  in  love  with  Janet?  The  boy  was  so  uncon 
scious  of  his  own  mental  processes  that  the  thought  never 
occurred  to  him. 

He  was  completely  submerged  in  shame.  He  drank  of 
it,  bathed  in  it,  was  steeped  in  it.  It  permeated  every  tissue 
of  his  body  and  every  fragment  of  his  soul. 

Janet!  He  told  himself  that  a  rascal  like  himself  was 
not  fit  to  breathe  the  same  air  as  she  who  bore  that  name, 
or  to  speak  that  name.  He  was,  doubtless,  what  Cecil, 
employing  old  English  script,  would  have  termed  a  rotter; 
what  Stan,  using  the  vernacular,  would  call  a  piker;  what 
Otto,  rude,  honest,  loyal  Otto,  expressing  himself  in  bold 
faced  German  text,  would  call  "ein  Schuft." 

He  was  crushed  by  the  sense  of  his  own  moral  obliquity. 
The  color  receded  from  his  face.  It  now  became  un 
naturally  white  and  looked  pinched  and  drawn.  So  stricken 
did  he  look,  so  still  and  silent  had  he  become  that  Frau 
Ursula  became  frightened. 

"Guido,  mein  lieber  Junge,  was  ist  Dir?" 

"Don't  call  me  your  lieber  Junge,"  he  retorted,  desper 
ately.  "I'm  a  brute-beast.  I'm  not  fit  for  decent  society. 
I'm  going  to  live  like  Dobronov,  in  poverty.  Hardship 
will  reform  me ;  hardship,  and  no  one  to  love  me." 

Frau  Ursula  became  alarmed. 

"Guido,  you  don't  mean  seriously  that  you  want  to  go 
and  live  on  the  East  Side  and  risk  tuberculosis  and  vermin 
and  everything?"  the  poor  woman  cried. 


YOUTH  477 

"East  Side?  Who  said  anything  about  living  on  the 
East  Side?"  the  boy  demanded,  and  Frau  Ursula  breathed 
a  sigh  of  relief.  He  had  the  habit  of  blind  words  when 
greatly  moved. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  suddenly,  "why  can't  we  move  to 
New  York?" 

"Impossible." 

"Why?' 

Frau  Ursula  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  Had  she  not 
leased  the  upper  flat  in  the  two-family  house?  Had  she 
not  bought  carpets,  curtains,  furniture?  What  had  put 
such  a  notion  into  her  dearest  boy's  head. 

"Sublet  the  flat  and  sell  all  the  junk  and  buy  other 
stuff,"  said  Guido. 

"Junk!"  said  Frau  Ursula  in  a  terrible  voice.  Were 
hundred-dollar  Axminster  rugs  and  eight-dollar  net  curtains 
"junk"? 

"I  know  I'm  hopeless  to-day,"  said  Guido,  real  contri 
tion  in  his  voice.  And  renewed  his  plea  that  they  move 
to  New  York. 

Frau  Ursula  became  subtly  excited.  She  said  she  had 
not  the  requisite  energy  to  begin  flat-hunting  all  over  again. 
And  living  in  New  York  would  come  twice  as  high  as 
living  in  Anasquoit.  And  they  knew  no  one  in  New  York. 
They  would  be  bored  to  death.  No,  manifestly,  New  York 
was  impossible.  She  wondered  her  boy  should  suggest  such 
a  thing. 

He  perceived  that  she  did  not  wish  to  leave  Anasquoit 
and  suspected  the  reason. 

"Mutterchen,"  he  demanded,  bluntly,  "do  you  still  love 
that  man?" 

Instantly  a  tremendous  change  came  over  Frau  Ursula. 
She  was  no  longer  a  woman  twice  Guide's  age  whom  he 
looked  to  as  a  guide  and  guardian.  It  was  pathetic  to  see 
all  the  dignity  of  her  years,  all  her  fine  manner  and 
presence  disappear.  There  remained  a  woman  of  uncertain 
age,  who  was  so  sick  at  heart  that  she  took  no  pains  to 
disguise  her  hurt.  And  suddenly,  with  unbelievable  abrupt 
ness,  she  began  to  weep  unrestrainedly. 

"Mutterchen,  I  am  so  sorry !  I  never  told  you,  Mother, 
that  I  saw  him  the  other  day." 


478  THE  HYPHEN 

Frau  Ursula's  tears  ceased  to  flow  instantly.  Grief 
waited  on  curiosity. 

Guido,  returning  from  the  theater  one  night,  had  seen 
Hauser  on  the  ferryboat.  Hauser  had  not  seen  him.  He 
was  carrying  an  umbrella — the  one  with  the  inlaid  gun- 
metal  top  which  Frau  Ursula  had  given  him  for  his  last 
birthday.  He  was  reading  a  magazine,  and  when  he  left 
the  cabin  he  forgot  his  umbrella.  Guido  secured  it  and  with 
it  ran  after  Hauser. 

"And  then?" 

"Mutterchen,  it  was  curious.  I  always  thought  I  hated 
him,  but  when  I  stood  close  behind  him  and  saw  how  gray 
his  hair  had  turned,  and  how  he  had  aged,  why  I  couldn't 
address  him  as  'Mr.  Hauser'  or  as  'Sir';  so  I  said,  'Father, 
you  forgot  your  umbrella.' " 

"What  did  he  say?"  Frau  Ursula  demanded,  eagerly. 

"He  started  violently  and  changed  color.  Then  his  face 
hardened,  but  when  I  handed  him  the  umbrella  he  said  in 
his  natural  voice :  'Thank  you,  Guido.' " 

"And  was  that  all?  Did  he  say  nothing  else?"  Frau 
Ursula  asked  as  many  questions  as  a  love-sick  miss  in 
her  teens  might  have  marshaled.  Was  Guido  sure  Hauser 
had  not  asked  for  her?  Or  meant  to  ask  for  her,  if  Guido 
had  given  him  time  ?  Or  had  Guido  given  him  time  to 
ask?  And  in  what  way  had  Hauser  aged?  Had  he  grown 
thin  as  well  as  gray?  Had  be  become  careless  in  his 
dress,  or  what  ?  And  what  magazine  had  he  been  reading  ? 
And  did  he  seem  unhappy  or  merely  forlorn?  How  had 
his  voice  sounded?  How  had  his  eyes  looked?  Was  he 
smoking?  Cigar  or  cigarette? 

Guido  answered  these  questions  as  best  he  could. 
Finally,  when  Frau  Ursula  had  quite  exhausted  her  stock 
of  questions,  though  Guido  could  see  that  her  appetite  for 
hearing  Hauser  spoken  of  was  still  unappeased,  Guido 
said: 

"Mother,  if  you  desire  a  reconciliation,  why  let  false 
pride  stand  in  the  way?  Allow  me  to  go  to  him  for  you. 
The  rupture  was  really  my  fault.  I  am  afraid  I  was  very 
selfish  at  first  and  never  thought  of  the  heart-ache  which 
my  shocking  outburst  of  temper  entailed  upon  you.  It  is 
only  fair  that  I  should  try  and  bring  you  together  again." 

At  that,  to  Guide's  consternation,  Frau  Ursula  began  to 


YOUTH  479 

weep  again.  She  declared  that  never  never  NEVER  would 
she  allow  Guido  to  do  such  a  thing.  If  Hauser  desired  to 
be  reconciled,  there  was  one  way  and  one  way  only  to 
obtain  her  forgiveness.  And  he  knew  it.  And  if  he  did 
not  know  it  she  would  sooner  perish  by  fire,  flood  or  halter 
than  teach  him  that  way. 

Guido  was  greatly  surprised  at  this  outburst.  His  mother 
was  so  soft  and  pliant  and  gentle  as  a  rule,  that  the  harsh 
energy  which  she  infused  into  her  indignation  gave  the 
boy  to  think.  He  remembered  .Mrs.  Erdman's  obscure  re 
marks  and  exclamations.  Probably  she  had  been  right 
after  all.  There  was  something  more  to  the  quarrel  be 
tween  his  mother  and  her  husband  than  appeared  at  the 
surface.  He  set  himself  the  task  of  eliciting  the  truth. 

"Mother,  you  are  keeping  something  from  me." 

She  neither  denied  nor  affirmed  this  charge,  but  sat 
mopping  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief,  which  by  this 
time  was  soaked  through  and  through. 

Guido  took  the  disgusting  square  of  linen  from  her  and 
flung  it  onto  the  bed.  Then  he  went  to  her  bureau  and 
fetched  her  a  clean  handkerchief.  Their  normal  relations 
were  entirely  reversed. 

"So,"  he  said,  drying  her  eyes,  and  then  pressing  the 
clean  kerchief  into  her  hands,  "why  not  confide  in  me? 
Just  what  did  Hauser  do  to  anger  you  so  terribly?  He 
must  have  said  something  else  later  in  the  evening.  No? 

Well,  I  cannot  imagine Mother,  look  here,  he  may  not 

know  that  he  has  offended  you  so  deeply.  Why  not  be 
frank  with  him  and  have  it  out  and  then  make  up?" 

"And  would  you  like  me  to  make  up  with  him?" 

"What  I  would  like  is  beside  the  question."  Guido  felt 
that  he  was  behaving  handsomely.  So  did  Frau  Ursula. 
She  patted  his  cheek,  and  called  him  her  own  dear,  true, 
kind,  noble  boy. 

"Come,  mother,  you  taught  me  to  be  reasonable  and 
fair.  And  in  the  past  you  have  always  been  reasonable 
and  fair  yourself " 

"Am  I  unreasonable  now?" 

"I  think  you  should  consider  the  happiness  of  your  hus 
band  and  your  own  happiness  more  than  you  are  doing." 

"Happiness,"  said   Frau   Ursula,  with  sentimental  sen- 


48o  THE  HYPHEN 

tentiousness,  "is  of  less  consequence  to  a  woman  of  honor 
than  self-respect." 

"You  are  talking  in  riddles,"  said  Guido,  curtly.  His 
pride  was  hurt  because  his  well-meant  efforts  apparently 
were  not  advancing  the  reconciliation  in  the  least. 

"I  believe  you  think  I  am  treating  Hauser  badly,"  Fran 
Ursula  said,  suddenly. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Guido  politely. 

The  loss  of  Guide's  blind  partisanship  was  more  than 
the  poor  woman  could  bear. 

"I  will  tell  you  the  humiliating  truth,"  she  said,  bound 
to  retrieve  her  stronghold  in  the  boy's  heart.  And  in 
words  as  modest  as  her  womanliness  and  the  life-long 
habit  of  clean  thinking  would  make  them,  she  told  Guido 
of  the  unjust  suspicion  which  Hauser  had  harbored  against 
her  all  the  years  of  their  married  life;  how  their  marriage 
had  been  no  marriage  at  all  until  last  summer;  how  their 
marriage  vows  would  never  have  been  consummated  if 
she  had  not  believed  that  Hauser's  shameful  and  ridiculous 
suspicion  was  dead;  how  suddenly,  on  the  memorable 
evening  of  the  quarrel,  Hauser,  by  the  way  in  which  he 
had  told  Guido  that  he  was  not  his  son,  had  revived  a 
seemingly  dead  issue,  making  of  it  a  cryingly,  burningly 
alive  problem. 

"And  that,"  she  concluded,  "is  my  real  reason  for  leaving 
him." 

"The  scoundrel,"  said  Guido,  unconsciously  using  the 
same  word  which  Mrs.  Erdman  had  used.  And  presently 
a  curious  thing  happened.  Hauser's  suspicion  placed  the 
behavior  of  the  Frau  Theaterdirektor  in  still  another  light. 
He  understood  poignantly  how  bitterly  it  must  hurt  his 
mother  to  be  thought  "that  sort  of  a  woman."  He  thought 
in  broad  swathes  of  thought  only,  not  in  fine  shadings.  He 
saw  red.  If  Hauser  had  been  at  hand,  Guido  would  have 
done  murder.  He  hated  Hauser  more  bitterly  than  he  had 
ever  hated  him  before. 


CHAPTER  X 

CHRISTMAS  passed  without  bringing  the  letter  or  mes 
sage  from  Hauser  for  which  Frau  Ursula  longed  so 
fervently.  She  had  confidently  expected  that  he  would 
make  an  overture  of  some  sort  before  the  holidays.  She 
entertained  romantic  hopes  of  Hauser  coming  to  the  hotel 
on  Christmas  Eve,  and  saying  the  sweet  soft  words  of 
which  she^knew  him  capable.  It  was  incredible  that  he 
should  not  make  one  final  effort  to  win  her  back.  He 
should,  she  thought,  have  divined  that  she  was  very  willing 
to  be  friends.  She  wept  all  Christmas  Night  in  the  privacy 
of  her  bed-room.  After  that  she  told  herself  that  she  was 
through  with  tears  and  repining  and  grief.  But,  though 
sBe  smiled  and  was  bright  and  cheerful,  the  brilliance  was 
gone  from  her  cheek,  the  resilience  from  her  step. 

Shortly  after  the  first  of  the  year  they  moved  into  their 
new  apartment.  It  was  a  charming  little  home,  and  should 
have  made  for  happiness.  Guido  thrust  the  War  sufficiently 
to  one  side  these  days  to  observe  his  mother  keenly,  and 
he  saw  that  she  was  listless  and  indifferent. 

Frau  Ursula  entertained  a  good  deal  during  the  first 
months  in  their  new  home.  She  seemed  to  dread  being 
left  alone.  She  would  have  entertained  even  more  than 
she  did,  but  the  servant-girl  problem  was  a  serious  one. 
The  maids  whom  she  engaged  were  inefficient,  and  when 
she  attempted  to  teach  them  they  became  insolent  and 
left.  Wages  were  ridiculously  high.  Thirty-five  dollars 
was  being  asked  by  servants  whose  experience  or  lack  of 
experience  six  months  earlier  would  have  entitled  them 
to  a  bare  twenty  dollars. 

The  pro-Germans,  under  guise  of  righteous  indignation, 
aired  their  grievances  and  their  sympathies.  Formerly  the 
Anasquoitians  had  attributed  the  shortage  of  servants  to  the 
factories  which  were  invading  Anasquoit  and  had  showered 
all  the  scorn  of  which  their  restricted  but  emphatic  vocabu- 
larly  was  capable  upon  the  foolish  girls  who,  for  the  sake 

481 


482  THE  HYPHEN 

of  free  evenings  and  free  Sundays,  preferred  to  work  in 
a  factory  among  people  of  their  own  sort,  to  the  manifold 
advantages  which  accrue  to  "living  out"  with  a  nice 
family,  where,  in  return  for  working  hard  fourteen  hours 
a  day,  a  girl  enjoys  the  privilege  of  seeing  how  really 
"nice"  people  conduct  themselves  and  their  homes. 

This  song  of  wrath  was  now  varied.  The  ammunition 
works  which  had  sprung  up  in  and  around  Anasquoit  as 
elsewhere,  where  bullets  and  shells  were  made  with  which 
to  shoot  the  good,  kind,  honest  Germans,  were  absorbing 
the  female  labor  which  should  have  been  scrubbing  floors 
and  washing  clothes  and  cleaning  windows  for  the  benefit 
and  comfort  of  its  betters. 

Frau  Ursula  did  not  swell  this  chorus  of  oblique  censure 
on  the  American  traffic  in  ammunition,  although  she  was 
one  of  the  chief  sufferers  from  the  prevalent  servantgitis. 
She  decided  to  send  the  laundry  out — in  spite  of  the 
circular  clothes-dryer,  like  an  inverted  umbrella,  which 
waited  her  pleasure  in  the  backyard  every  day  of  the  week 
— and  to  have  her  cleaning  woman  in  thrice  a  week  or 
as  many  days  as  she  would  consent  to  come.  This  left  her 
with  only  the  meals  to  get,  enough  labor,  in  sooth,  for  a 
woman  who  had  not  pared  a  potato  or  scraped  a  carrot 
since  the  days  when  she  had  been  taught  how  to  cook  in 
a  fashionable  cooking  school. 

They  had  Dobronov  over  for  as  many  week-ends  as  he 
would  come.  Frau  Ursula  was  quite  as  fond  uf  the  ec 
centric  Russian  as  Guido,  and  she  bribed  him  to  come 
often  and  stay  long  by  serving  him  with  plain,  cheap  dishes 
such  as  lentils  and  rice.  The  honest  fellow  did  not  suspect 
that  he  ate  doctored  food.  The  lentils  contained  finely 
chopped  bacon  and  chicken  so  cleverly  insinuated  that 
Dobronov  thought,  in  all  innocence  and  sincerity,  that  the 
red  pottage  derived  its  excellent  flavor  merely  from  the 
molasses  and  vinegar  to  which  Frau  Ursula  willingly  con 
fessed.  The  rice  was  baked.  Grated  cheese  and  sugar 
and  cream  enriched  it,  and  made  it  a  delectable  dainty. 
Frau  Ursula  blamed  the  excellent  milk  for  the  rich  taste 
of  the  dish.  He  knew — did  he  not? —  that  "Jersey"  cows 
were  famed  the  world  over?  Was  it  her  fault  if  Jersey 
farmers  fed  their  cows  some  mixture  of  grain  which  gave 
the  milk,  when  baked,  such  a  delicious  flavor?  Thus  it 


YOUTH  483 

happened  that  Sergius  Ivanovitch,  while  indulging  his 
quarrelsome  soul,  indulged  his  long-suffering  stomach  as 
well  without  knowing  it. 

He  had,  by  this  time,  divorced  himself  from  Christian 
Science,  to  which — as  Guido  reminded  him — he  had  vowed 
everlasting  allegiance  the  previous  summer. 

"I  discovered  in  time,"  he  explained,  "that  the  Christian 
Scientists  do  nothing  but  talk  about  disease.  Now  it's  all 
very  well  to  believe  God  is  Truth — so  He  is,  of  course — 
but  I  do  not  believe  that  the  sole  use  of  truth  resides  in 
application  to  bodily  ills.  I  believe  in  rendering  to  Caesar 
the  things  that  are  Caesar's  and  to  God  the  things  that 
are  God's.  In  other  words,  render  to  the  body  medicines 
and  physical  care,  and  to  the  spirit  spiritual  advice  and 
support.  Besides,  they  are  all  so  prosperous,  so  indecently 
prosperous.  Their  idea  of  religion  is  to  better  their 
worldly  condition.  A  pernicious  doctrine!  A  detestable 
doctrine!  The  soul  finds  itself  in  hardship,  in  poverty, 
in  sickness  and  in  sorrow.  All  experience  has  shown  that 
a  certain  amount  of  individual  grief  and  pain  are  indis 
pensable  if  soul  and  heart  are  to  be  disciplined  and  edu 
cated.  What  queer  things  people  do  believe." 

During  one  of  his  visits  Dobronov  slipped  on  the  side 
walk  and  sprained  his  ankle  and  was  forced  to  remain 
under  Frau  Ursula's  roof  for  a  full  week.  Guido  was 
surprised  upon  this  occasion  to  see  his  friend  reveal  a 
new  and  unsuspected  side  of  his  character.  He  welcomed 
Guido's  suggestion  to  play  chess;  discussed  literature  and 
art,  rejected  nothing  that  was  comfortable  and  agreeable, 
and  told  tales  of  his  Russian  home  and  childhood  which 
gave  Guido  a  vivid  insight  into  the  life  and  traditions  of 
his  maternal  forebears.  Sergius  Ivanovich  told  of  the 
strange  custom  of  the  Easter  Kiss ;  of  the  curious  sweet 
meats,  as  strange  and  unpalatable  to  the  uninitiated  as 
Chinese  candy,  which  are  made  especially  for  Easter;  of 
the  butter-week;  of  the  great  fair  at  Nijni-Novgorod ;  of 
the  strange  Tartar  costumes  which  are  still  seen  in  some 
parts  of  Russia;  of  the  wonderful  ikons,  set  with  precious 
gems  which  ornament  the  exterior  of  the  Russian  Orthodox 
Churches ;  of  the  demand  for  popes  with  deep  baritones 
to  read  the  services  in  Church  Slavonik ;  of  the  Russian 
crucifix  which  has  an  extra  cross-bar  near  the  lower  ex- 


484  THE  HYPHEN 

tremity  of  the  center  beam,  probably  as  a  foot-rest;  of 
the  influence  of  the  Germans,  who  are  hated  and  feared 
by  patriotic  Russians;  of  the  simple  faith,  the  kindliness, 
the  heart-breaking  poverty  of  the  peasants ;  of  the  marvel 
ous  mental  receptivity  of  the  Russian  mind,  and  unques 
tioning,  uncritical  receptivity  which  inevitably  makes  the 
last  argument  appear  the  best. 

He  spoke  of  the  unbelievable  graft  rampant  among 
Russian  officials,  and  on  the  other  hand,  of  the  equally  in 
credible  spectacle  afforded  by  high  officials  of  state  and 
officers  of  the  army  assisting  political  exiles  to  escape. 

"Do  not  ask  me  why,"  he  said.  "There  are  a  hundred 
and  one  possible  motives.  Such  an  official  may  be  touched 
by  the  sufferings  of  a  'political,'  or  he  may  be  a  Revolu 
tionist  at  heart,  and  have  worked  to  achieve  a  powerful 
office  for  the  express  purpose  of  using  it  to  aid  'politicals.'  " 

"But  if  that  is  so,  why  should  such  an  official  not  use 
his  influence  in  a  direct  way?"  Guido  demanded. 

"What  methods  would  the  direct  way  employ  ?"  Dobronov 
inquired. 

"I  do  not  know,  Sergius  Ivanovich,  I  am  not  a  Russian." 

"And  I,"  Dobronov  rejoined,  "do  not  know  and  I  am 
a  Russian." 

Guido  knew  Dobronov  too  well  to  suspect  him  of  cheap 
repartee.  His  friend's  reply  gave  him  an  insight  into 
the  strange  strands  of  well-meaning  futility  which  is  so 
salient  a  feature  of  the  Russian  character. 

Frequently,  after  a  long  talk  with  Dobronov,  Guido 
would  sit  for  hours  thinking  or  feeling,  he  could  not  have 
said  which.  A  conversation  with  Cecil  had  invariably 
brought  his  thoughts  into  focus,  organized  and  classified 
and  consolidated  them.  A  talk  with  Dobronov  had  the 
reverse  effect.  It  seemed  to  disperse  his  thoughts,  to 
stimulate  them  into  radiation  in  all  directions,  so  that  it 
was  impossible  to  gather  them  in  and  set  them  in  order 
to  profit  by  them.  Cecil  had  facts  and  figures  at  his 
finger-tips.  Dobronov  cared  nothing  for  facts  and  figures 
and  his  theories  were  mere  vagaries,  as  unsubstantial  as 
a  spider-web  and  as  elusive  as  moonlight  on  water. 

"Just  what  use  is  being  made  of  your  vast  income, 
Sergius  Ivanovich?"  Guido  asked  him  one  day. 

"My  instructions  were  to  divide  half  of  it  among  the 


YOUTH  485 

peasants  of  my  estate,"  said  Dobrondv,  "in  proportion  to 
the  number  of  persons  in  each  family." 

"And  are  you  not  afraid  that  an  augmented,  unearned 
income  will  corrupt  them  and  ruin  their  hope  of  salva 
tion?" 

"What  things  you  do  say,  Guido  Guidovich,"  Dobronov 
exclaimed.  Then,  quite  seriously,  he  added :  "The  thought 
has  troubled  me  lately.  I  think,  however,  that  they  have 
been  so  desperately  poor  for  so  long,  and  they  all  have 
such  big  families  that  the  individual  share  of  my  income 
cannot  be  sufficiently  large  to  seriously  disturb  their  chances 
of  salvation." 

"There  is  another  possibility,"  Guido  exclaimed.  "Six 
years  have  elapsed  since  you  came  here.  For  six  years  you 
have  left  everything  in  the  hands  of  your  agent.  If  the 
man  is  dishonest,  there  may  be  nothing  left  of  your  estate 
and  fortune  by  this  time." 

"What  things  you  do  think  of,  Guido  Guidovich," 
Dobronov  exclaimed,  and  then  added:  "Honesty  compels 
me  to  admit  that  the  same  thought  has  already  occurred 
to  me,  and  it  has  worried  me  not  a  little.  The  man  whom 
I  selected  as  my  agent  was  virtually  a  stranger  to  me.  He 
may  be  a  man  who  is  easily  tempted.  Being  entrusted 
with  my  vast  interests  may  have  been  his  ruin.  I  should 
have  thought  of  that  in  advance.  If  he  has  stolen  my 
property,  the  sin  be  upon  my  head,  not  his." 

Was  there  no  limit  to  the  number  of  iridescent  facets 
of  Dobronov's  character  ?  Guido  stared  in  amazement.  He 
was  abashed.  Dobronov  was  more  than  man — or  less. 

Dobronov  showed  still  another  wholly  unsuspected  side. 
He  was  fond  of  children.  While  confined  to  the  house, 
he  indulged  in  a  great  flirtation  with  a  young  lady  of  five 
who  occupied  a  window  in  the  neighboring  house,  op 
posite  to  his  own.  Apparently  she  had  the  mumps,  for 
her  little  face  was  swathed  around  with  flannel.  Dobronov 
and  she  had  great  conversations  by  play  of  hands,  and 
nodding  of  heads,  and  smiles,  and  twisting  of  mouths,  and 
screwing  about  of  eyes. 

Guido,  coming  upon  his  friend  unawares  one  day,  caught 
him  at  the  game,  and  tiptoed  out  of  the  room  to  summon 
Frau  Ursula.  Together  mother  and  son  watched  the  odd 
proceeding — the  grave,  blonde,  dignified  young  man,  all 


486  THE  HYPHEN 

gravity  and  reserve  gone,  making  the  most  remarkable 
grimaces  at  the  little  girl  in  the  neighboring  house.  Sud 
denly  Dobronov  became  aware  that  he  was  being  watched 
and  looked  up. 

"Guido  Guidovitch,"  he  called,  smiling  broadly,  "will  you 
do  me  a  favor  ?  Have  you  a  toy-shop  in  this  town  ?  Good. 
Go  and  buy  me  a  doll — the  little  miss  wants  a  small  one, 
six  inches  long,  with  movable  joints,  blue  eyes  and  fair 
hair.  Go  at  once,  will  you?" 

"Apparently,"  said  Guido,  "the  state  of  the  little  girl's 
soul  does  not  trouble  you." 

"Little  girls  and  boys  have  no  souls,"  the  amazing 
Dobronov  replied.  "How  can  a  mere  baby  have  a  moral 
sense?  Ridiculous.  That  comes  later  in  life.  That's  why 
we  all  love  small  children,  we  can  indulge  their  every  whim 
to  our  heart's  content." 

Guido  went  to  purchase  the  doll  and  Frau  Ursula  in 
quired  : 

"Sergius  Ivanovich,  how  did  you  know  what  the  child 
wanted?" 

"She  told  me  by  motions  and  si-gns." 

"Surely  you  did  not  understand  all  she  wanted  to  say 
to  you?" 

"No  more  than  she  understood  all  I  wanted  to  say  to 
her." 

"And  what  did  you  want  to  say  to  her?" 

"Oh,  I  cannot  put  it  into  words.  It's  like  music.  Some 
thing  fine  and  splendid  and  delightful,  but  quite  too  deli 
cate  in  meaning  to  be  subjected  to  the  heavy  touch  of 
language." 

"How  gentle  Dobronov  is,"  Guido  said  that  evening  to 
his  mother,  after  having  delivered  the  doll  to  the  house 
next  door  with  a  note  from  Dobronov  which  he  would 
not  allow  Guido  to  read. 

"No  gentler  than  your  mother,"  justice  forced  Frau 
Ursula  to  say. 

"My  mother !"  said  Guido  bitterly.  "My  mother !"  The 
concentrated  bitterness  in  his  voice  made  Frau  Ursula  look 
up  swiftly. 

"Mutterchen,  I  often  wonder,  did  Vasalov,  in  selecting 
Dobronov  as  my  teacher,  hope  that  in  the  course  of  his 
soul's  perambulations  he  would  take  to  bomb-throwing?" 


YOUTH  487 

"With  a  Russian  all  things  are  possible,"  said  Frau 
Ursula  with  a  sigh. 

"How  long,  Mother,  since  Vasalov  paid  you  that  visit?" 

"You  were  eleven  years  old." 

"I  wish  I  might  see  him,"  said  Guido,  "and  yet  I  do 
not  wish  ever  to  meet  him  face  to  face.  You  say  I  was 
enchanted  with  him  as  a  child.  And  now  I  hate  him.  Ah, 
how  I  hate  him!  How  I  loathe  the  very  thought  of  him!" 

Frau  Ursula  did  not  demur.  She  hated  Vasalov  quite 
as  bitterly  as  Guido  did,  perhaps  more,  for  imbedded  in  her 
hatred  was  the  element  of  fear.  She  had  no  specific  notion 
of  the  nature  of  the  menace  which  he  might  yet  introduce 
into  her  life,  but  the  vapory  indistinctness  in  which  her  fears 
were  shrouded  added  to  rather  than  diminished  her  un 
easiness. 

"Don't  let  us  think  about  him — and  her,"  said  Guido, 
suddenly. 

"Guido — speak  respectfully  of  your  mother!"  Frau 
Ursula  entreated. 

"Don't  call  her  my  mother,"  the  boy  said  angrily.  "That 
Russian  woman  is  nothing  to  me,  less  than  nothing."  Frau 
Ursula  felt  it  her  duty  to  expostulate  with  him,  but  in 
the  middle  of  her  sentence  Guido  rose  and  walked  quietly 
from  the  room,  an  incivility  of  which  he  had  never  been 
guiltv  before. 

Was  Frau  Ursula  displeased  or  pleased?  Who  shall 
say?  Guido  had  given  her  fresh  proof  that  "the  Russian 
woman"  would  never  usurp  her  place  in  his  heart.  Egoism 
thus  was  pampered  and  fed.  But  altruism  held  back  egoism 
and  declared  it  was  a  shame,  a  crying  shame  that  the  boy 
would  not  try  to  overcome  his  aversion  for  his  real  mother. 

But  Frau  Ursula  smiled  as  she  sat  over  her  embroidery. 


CHAPTER  XI 

EVEN  supreme  and  unselfish  love  cannot  wholly  com 
prehend  the  needs,  the  pains,  the  joys  of  a  fellow- 
creature.  Frau  Ursula,  great  as  was  her  love  for  Guido, 
did  not  comprehend  in  the  least  what  tortures  he  endured 
whenever  Varvara  Alexandrovna  was  mentioned. 

Guido,  after  leaving  his  mother  with  such  scant  courtesy, 
donned  hat  and  coat  and  sallied  forth. 

He  walked  rapidly  up  the  street,  bound  for  nowheres 
in  particular.  As  he  approached  Elm  Street,  he  perceived 
that  the  door  of  Pastor  Marlow's  church  stood  wide  open. 
The  light  streamed  pleasantly  from  the  vestibule  onto  the 
flagged  path.  Guido  hesitated  a  moment.  He  was  heart 
sick  and  longed  for  comfort.  He  longed,  truth  to  tell, 
to  have  that  comfort  spoken  in  German.  It  was  the 
Pastor's  habit,  as  he  knew,  to  deliver  a  short  address  at 
his  prayer-meetings.  Guido,  hoping  to  hear  he  knew  not 
what,  entered  the  church. 

The  church  was  well-filled.  The  front  pews  were  all 
solidly  occupied,  and  Guido  perceived  that  the  occupants 
were  all  men.  Someone  whispered  to  him  that  the  Herr 
Pastor  was  holding  an  especial  service  for  the  Germans 
who  had  been  stranded  in  Anasquoit'for  the  duration  of  the 
War. 

Guide's  spirits,  which  had  been  at  low  ebb  before,  suf 
fered  an  additional  decline.  He  wished  himself  a  hundred 
miles  away.  Prescience  told  him  that  the  Pastor,  in  ad 
dressing  his  Teutonic  guests,  would  give  unrestricted  vent 
to  his  German  sympathies.  He  thought  of  leaving  the 
church  while  there  was  yet  time,  but  he  lacked  the  courage 
to  pass  the  ushers  at  the  door,  all  of  whom  he  knew. 

Pastor  Marlow  had  chosen  the  text: 

"And  Jesus  went  into  the  temple  of  God  and  cast  out 
all  them  that  sold  and  bought  in  the  temple,  and  overthrew 

488 


YOUTH  489 

the  tables  of  the  moneychangers  and  the  seats  of  them  that 
had  sold  doves." 

A  strange  excitement  seemed  to  pervade  him  as  he  began 
his  sermon,  which  seemed  to  communicate  itself  to  the 
congregation.  It  was  a  sermon  that  bristled  with  tactless 
ness  and  cant.  Guido,  who  in  spite  of  the  Pastor's  German 
sympathies,  entertained  a  profound  reverence  for  the 
dominie's  sterling  worth  of  character,  was  appalled  by  the 
egregious  folly  which  could  lead  a  minister  of  the  gospel 
to  make  such  utterances  from  the  pulpit. 

The  Pastor  declared  first  of  all  that,  using  the  text  as  a 
parable,  it  was  subject  to  the  following  exposition:  The 
money-changers  in  the  temple  were  the  English,  whose 
commercial  greed  had  brought  about  the  World- War. 
Germany,  of  course,  was  likened  to  Christ  in  her  divinely 
appointed  task  of  chastising  and  scourging  the  profaners 
of  the  Lord's  Edifice.  By  the  grace  of  God,  he  said, 
Germany,  a  solitary  but  divinely  girt  crusader,  would  suc 
ceed  in  fulfilling  her  holy  mission,  and  would  punish  and 
purge  the  Allied  Nations  of  the  manifold  sins  which  they 
were  committing  at  England's  behest.  England  should 
never  rule  all  the  world,  as  she  was  aspiring  to  do. 

Pastor  Marlow  continued: 

"In  a  wonderful  volume  of  poems  which  have  recently 
come  into  my  hands,  and  which  were  written  by  Pastor 
Vorwerk,  I  found  a  paraphrase  of  the  Lord's  Prayer  which 
I  am  going  to  recite  to  you,  for  I  am  sure  that  better  than 
any  prayer  that  I  could  frame  it  voices  the  sentiments  and 
convictions  of  all  who  are  present: 

"Though  the  warrior's  bread  is  scanty,  do  thou  work 
daily  death  and  tenfold  woe  unto  the  enemy.  Forgive 
in  merciful  long-suffering  each  bullet  and  each  blow  which 
miss  their  mark.  Lead  us  not  into  the  temptation  of 
letting  our  wrath  be  too  tame  in  carrying  out  thy  divine 
judgment.  Deliver  us  and  our  Ally  from  the  infernal 
enemy  and  his  servants  on  earth.  Thine  is  the  kingdom, 
the  German  land;  may  we,  by  thy  steel-clad  hand,  achieve 
the  power  and  the  glory.  Amen."* 

*For  the  English  version  of  this  "prayer"  the  author  is  indebted 
to  J.  P.  Bang's  "Hurrah  and  Hallellujah." 


490  THE  HYPHEN 

Too  revolted  for  words,  Guido  rose,  and,  excusing  him 
self  to  the  other  occupants  of  the  pew,  walked  quickly  out 
of  the  church.  He  passed  Elschen  on  his  way  down  the 
aisle,  who  looked  at  him  anxiously,  thinking  him  suddenly 
unwell,  so  white  and  strained  was  his  face.  He  contrived 
to  smile  at  her  and  passed  on.  Apparently  she  was  the 
only  person  in  the  church  who  had  noted  his  departure. 
The  rest  of  the  congregation  sat  attentive  and  intent,  mir 
roring  exultant  beatitude. 

Guido  dashed  wildly  through  the  baize  swinging  door 
of  the  vestibule  into  the  fresh,  clean  night-air. 

"God!"  he  exclaimed.  "God  in  heaven!  Can  such 
things  be!  In  a  Christian  church!" 

He  had  entered  the  church,  hoping  that  words  of  spiritual 
cheer  would  help  him  to  overcome  the  misery  that  was 
gnawing  at  his  heart-strings  and  the  shame  which  was 
eating  into  his  marrow. 

And  he  came  forth  a  thousand  times  more  ashamed  than 
he  had  gone  in. 

He  walked  rapidly  down  the  street.  He  thought  he  would 
drop  in  at  the  Geddes  home,  and  extract  comfort  from 
any  member  of  the  family  at  leisure  to  entertain  him.  But 
it  was  almost  nine  o'clock,  and  in  spite  of  the  royal  wel 
come  which  always  awaited  him  at  the  Professor's,  he 
felt  some  hesitation  in  presenting  himself  there  at  so  un 
conventional  an  hour. 

He  thought  of  Stan.  But  Stan,  lucky  dog  of  pure 
Anglo-Saxon  breed,  would  deal  him  a  resounding  slap  on 
the  shoulder  and  tell  him  to  chuck  all  his  German  ac 
quaintances  indiscriminately,  and  dismiss  the  War  from 
his  mind  and  forget  he  had  any  foreign  blood  in  his  veins. 

He  thought  of  Cecil.  The  English  boy,  with  his  ever- 
ready  willingness  to  talk  and  to  analyze,  was  never  far 
from  Guide's  thoughts  these  days.  Was  Cecil  in  danger? 
Would  he  come  through  all  right?  The  thought  of  Cecil 
quieted  him.  The  thoughts  that  disturbed  and  harrowed 
him  suddenly  seemed  petty,  unreasonable,  selfish  when 
compared  to  the  discomforts  and  dangers  which  Cecil  was 
undergoing. 

He  turned  to  go  home,  turned  abruptly  and  ran  violently 
into  a  small,  slender  man  with  his  Derby  low  on  his  brow. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Guido,  drawing  back. 


YOUTH  491 

"I  beg  yours,"  said  the  other  in  accents  so  delicate  and 
shadowy  that  the  harsh  monosyllables  were  unbelievably 
softened. 

Then  the  two  young  men  stood  and  smiled  at  each  other 
sheepishly.  They  were  class-mates  and  they  had  spoken 
once  or  twice  in  class,  and  once  or  twice  had  walked  a 
block  or  two  together.  Guido  had  taken  what  Stan  called 
"a  terrific  shine"  to  the  young  man,  and  was  a  little 
ashamed  of  the  reasons  which  had  held  him  back  from 
eagerly  cultivating  his  acquaintance. 

For  the  slender  young  man  was  a  Japanese  and  his  name 
was  Tada  Yomanato.  Guido,  priding  himself  as  he  did 
upon  his  absence  of  race  prejudice  would,  if  left  to  him 
self,  have  made  friends  with  Yomanato  long  before.  But 
Otto  and  Stan  were  forever  at  him.  Stan,  whose  parents 
came  from  the  Coast,  had  the  Calif ornian's  ingrained  dis 
like  for  the  yellow  races.  "The  Japs  are  mere  copy-cats," 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  saying,  "and  we  don't  want  them 
in  this  country."  Otto  expressed  his  dislike,  the  typical 
German  dislike  for  the  Japanese,  in  terms  far  more  em 
phatic.  Between  the  two  Guido  had  had  a  hard  time  in 
being  decently  civil  to  Yomanato.  He  argued  by  the  hour 
both  with  Stan  and  Otto,  but  did  not  care  to  risk  an  open 
quarrel  by  inviting  Yomanato  to  his  house  when  the  others 
were  there. 

Guido  broke  the  embarrassed  silence.  In  after  life  he 
often  wondered  whether  chance  or  destiny — much-hated 
word — had  thrown  Yomanato  and  himself  together  that 
evening. 

"I  have  just  come  out  of  a  church,  a  Christian  church, 
a  German  Christian  church,"  said  Guido,  "and  I  am 
ashamed." 

The  Japanese  received  this  burst  of  confidence  with 
Oriental  immobility. 

"Was  it  the  War  ?"  he  asked,  after  a  moment. 

"Yes,"  said  Guido.  "To  carry  it  into  the  pulpit !"  Then, 
feeling  that  his  indignation  had  placed  him  in  an  oblique 
position,  he  added  hastily,  honestly: 

"I  am  not  a  Christian.  Nevertheless,  what  I  heard  to 
night  was  blasphemy,  sacrilege — I  do  not  know  what  to 
call  it." 

Tada  Yomanato  said  slowly: 


492  THE  HYPHEN 

"One  does  not  need  to  be  a  Christian  to  perceive  blas 
phemy."  The  Japanese  spoke  slowly,  as  if  speed  in  speech 
were  impeded  by  caution  in  the  selection  of  words.  "In 
my  country,  at  Kamukura,  there  is  a  statue  of  Buddha, 
Dai  Butsu,  and  on  the  entrance  to  the  shrine  are  inscribed 
words  which,  to  my  mind,  make  plain  the  nature  of  blas 
phemy  and  sacrilege." 

"What  are  the  words?"  Guido  demanded. 

"Pardon,"  said  the  Japanese,  "but  is  it  well  that  we 
should  speak  of  sacred  things  in  this  haphazard  fashion? 
Will  you  not  honor  me — and  come  to  my  rooms?" 

"Gladly,"  said  Guido. 

Yomanato  occupied  rooms  in  an  old-fashioned  mansion 
on  Maple  Street,  a  secluded,  quiet  avenue  amply  provided 
with  the  tree  for  which  it  was  named.  Yomanato  let  him 
self  and  Guido  in  with  latch-key,  and  led  the  way  to  a 
very  large  front  room  on  the  second  floor,  furnished 
pleasantly  enough  with  a  bed-couch,  a  morris  chair,  a 
wicker  rocking  chair,  a  table  with  an  old-fashioned  student 
lamp  and  other  purely  Occidental  furniture.  Yomanato 
invited  Guido  to  sit,  and  then,  going  to  the  book-case,  he 
pulled  out  a  book. 

"I  happen  to  have  the  words  here  in  English,"  he  ex 
plained.  "Were  I  to  translate,  the  language  would  not 
be  so  good."  Opening  the  book  he  proceeded  to  read  the 
words  of  the  inscription  which  he  had  referred  to  before: 

"O  Stranger,  whosoever  thou  art  and  whatsoever  thy 
creed,  when  thou  enterest  this  sanctuary,  remember  that 
thou  treadest  upon  ground  hallowed  by  the  worship  of 
ages.  This  is  the  Temple  of  Buddha  and  the  Gate  of  the 
Eternal,  and  should  therefore  be  entered  with  reverence."* 

Having  finished  reading  the  passage,  the  Japanese  gently 
closed  the  book  and  then  came  and  sat  down  on  a  chair 
near  Guido. 

"If  I  were  to  enter  a  Christian  church,"  he  said,  "and 
were  to  indudge  in  irreverent  or  licentious  or  contemptuous 
thoughts  while  there,  I  should,  according  to  my  belief,  be 
guilty  of  sacrilige.  What  is  sacred  to  the  followers  of 

*The  book  referred  to  from  which  the  translation  is  taken,  is 
James  A.  B.  Scherer's  "Japan  of  To-day." 


YOUTH  493 

one  faith  should  at  least  command  the  respect  of  all  be 
lievers  in  whatsover  creeds." 

"It  should  command  respect  of  all  men,  whether  they 
have  a  faith  or  not,"  said  Guido. 

"Atheists?"  the  Japanese  inquired,  mildly. 

"Atheists?"  Guido  perceived  the  drift  of  the  question, 
and  admired  the  shrewdness  of  the  Japanese.  He  colored 
and  laughed. 

"Is  an  atheist  any  more  honest  than  a  gnostic — or  a 
gnostic  than  an  atheist?" 

The  Japanese  regarded  Guido  with  an  utterly  immobile 
face.  It  occurred  to  Guido  that  Yomanato  might  not  know 
the  meaning  of  "gnostic."  It  further  occurred  to  him  that 
he  might  comprehend  the  word,  since  his  English  was 
marvelously  good,  and  that  he  might  be  a  gnostic  himself. 
Guido  had  read  much  about  Buddhism,  but  he  was  un 
certain  as  to  the  manner  in  which  Buddhists  classify  them 
selves. 

"I  hope  I  haven't  dropped  a  brick,"  said  Guido.  "I'm 
not  sure  whether  Buddhists  are  gnostics  or  agnostics." 

"Neither  am  I,"  said  Yomanato,  smiling  blandly.  "Un 
doubtedly,  Buddhism  as  popularly  taught,  like  certain 
popular  brands  of  Christianity,  is  intrinsically  a  gnostic 
faith.  But  the  higher  Buddhism,  to  which  I  aspire,  which 
I  hope  to  understand  some  day,  offers  no  information  as 
to  the  beginning  of  things,  as  your  Scriptures  do." 

"Then  you  are  a  Buddhist?"  Guido  inquired,  unaware 
that  according  to  his  host's  standards,  he  was  being  un 
warrantably  rude  in  asking  so  leading  a  question. 

Yomanato  replied  pleasantly: 

"My  father  was  a  Buddhist.  My  mother  was  a  follower 
of  Shinto.  I  myself  observe  both  religions." 

"Both?"  Guido  echoed.  "Both?"  This  was  worse  than 
Dobronov,  who  in  his  desire  to  avoid  improper  classifica 
tion,  at  least  discarded  one  faith  before  embarking  on  the 
troubled  waters  of  another. 

"Both,"  Yomanato  assured  him,  smiling  so  broadly  this 
time  that  his  even,  ivory-white  teeth  showed  like  two  rows 
of  pearls.  "I  am  aware,"  he  said,  "that  here  it  is  the 
custom  of  one  religion,  or  one  creed,  to  discredit  other 
religions  and  other  creeds.  Why  not  combine  instead  ?  The 
essentials  of  all  religions  are  the  same." 


494  THE  HYPHEN 

"What  are  the  essentials  of  religion?"  Guido  inquired, 
feeling  very  green  and  young. 

"A  pure  life,  reverence  for  the  Unseen  World,  honesty 
toward  ourselves  and  others,  avoidance  of  unclean  and 
lascivious  thoughts,  kindness  to  all  living  creatures.  These, 
I  think,  are  the  essentials  of  religion.  Yours,  I  am  sure, 
contains  them  as  well  as  does  my  compound  faith." 

"I  have  no  faith!"  It  caused  Guido  a  tremendous 
effort  to  heave  these  words  from  his  lips.  He  felt  humili 
ated,  he  could  not  have  said  why.  "My  education  was 
peculiar,"  he  said.  "I  was  supposed  to  be  brought  up 
without  a  bias.  In  religion.  In  everything.  I  verily  be 
lieve  it  was  a  mere  concession  to  expediency,  to  the  tem 
poral  powers  vested  in  government,  that  I  was  taught  it 
was  wrong  to  lie  and  to  steal.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I 
don't  believe  I  was  taught  even  that  much.  I  absorbed 
by  example.  I  comprehended  that  nice  people  didn't  do 
such  things.  I  was  given  many  books  to  read,  books  on 
Judaism,  Christianity,  Buddhism,  Taoism,  when  I  was 
quite  a  child.  Possibly  I  learned  my  moral  code  from 
those  source-books.  I  was  told  that  all  religions  were 
good  and  true.  I  wasn't  supposed  to  be  brought  up  with 
a  bias  for  any  form  of  government,  either.  I  suppose  I 
couldn't  help  learning  to  prefer  the  democratic  form  to 
the  monarchial  form.  At  any  rate,  my  love  for  democ 
racy  was  bred  in  the  bone.  It  must  have  been,  for  our 
German  teachers  were  quke  as  patriotic  teutonically  as 
our  American  teachers  were  patriotic  in  their  love  for 
America.  It  was  a  queer  way  to  bring  up  a  youngster. 
The  only  definite  lesson  I  remember  receiving  at  home," 
Guido  concluded,  "was  to  love  and  revere  Washington  and 
Lincoln  above  all  other  men." 

"Washington !  Lincoln  !"  For  one  moment  the  Oriental's 
terrible  immobility  vanished.  He  regained  it  immediately. 
"Washington  and  Lincoln,"  he  said,  "were  two  of  the 
greatest  men  that  ever  lived.  They  teach  Japanese  chil 
dren  about  them.  Like  Gautama,  like  Jesus  the  Christ, 
like  Moses  and  Confucius  they  were  men  who  helped 
make  all  humanity  better  and  stronger  and  saner.  They 
were  world-saviours.  Covetousness  is  forbidden  us,  but 
I  transgress  when  I  think  of  those  two  men." 


YOUTH  495 

"You  make  me  proud  to  be  an  American,"  said  Guido, 
from  a  desire  to  be  polite  to  his  host's  eloquence. 

"You  may  well  be  proud  of  your  nationality,"  Yomanato 
replied,  pleasantly.  "America  has  done  much  for  us.  She 
has  opened  Japan  to  the  benefits  of  Western  civilization. 
You  forced  those  benefits  upon  us — at  the  cannon's  mouth. 
We  were  afraid  to  admit  strangers  to  Nippon  because  of 
an  earlier  experience  with  a  Christian  power.  We  were 
the  hermit  among  nations,  more  secluded  and  unapproach 
able  than  China.  You  came,  and  with  your  big  ships  and 
big  guns  frightened  us  out  of  our  former  fright.  And 
now,  less  than  half  a  century  later,  we  stand  in  the  fore 
front  of  nations.  We  fight  hand  to  hand  with  the  white 
race  to  save  the  white  race's  civilization  from  a  white  race 
which  is  barbarian  at  heart." 

What  man  can  say  what  hidden  springs  lie  dormant 
within  him?  Guido,  champion  of  the  belief  in  the  equality 
of  all  races,  felt  an  unaccountable  stirring  of  race  prejudice, 
a  strange,  primordal,  elemental  feeling  that  it  behooved 
him  to  defend  the  Germans,  because  they  were  a  white 
race,  in  spite  of  the  infamies  which  they  were  perpetrating, 
against  the  charge  of  barbarism  made  by  an  Oriental. 
There  was  at  play  within  him  another,  a  more  subtle  and 
more  far-reaching  instinct.  The  Germans  were  a  Chris 
tian  nation.  The  Japanese  were  not.  He  was  not  a 
Christian  himself,  at  least  so  he  declared,  with  painstaking 
honesty,  whenever  opportunity  offered.  Yet,  uncon 
sciously,  he  aligned  himself  in  defense  of  the  nation  that 
claimed  to  be  Christian,  although  her  hands  were  red  with 
innocent  blood,  her  heart  black  with  perfidy;  although, 
within  the  hour  he  had  heard  that  in  a  German  Christian 
church  .which  had  sent  him  running  out  of  God's  house 
with  unseemly  haste. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  am  defending  Germany," 
he  said.  "She's  acted  very  badly.  But  truth  is  truth. 
The  Germans  are  not  barbarians.  They  are  a  highly 
civilized  race." 

"Pardon,"  said  Yomanato  smoothly,  "it  was  not  my  in 
tention  to  offend.  I  thought  you  an  American." 

"I  am  an  American,"  Guido  rejoined,  "of  German  ex 
traction.  And  I  think  Germany  has  acted  despicably. 


496  THE  HYPHEN 

But,  as  I  said  before,  Germany  has  attained  a  very  high 
degree  of  civilization." 

An  enigmatic  smile  appeared  on  Yomanato's  face. 

"It  is  barely  possible,"  he  said,  "that  we  differ  in  the 
meaning  we  attach  to  the  word  'civilization.' 

"You  of  the  West,"  Yomanato  continued,  "attach  much 
importance  to  the  evolution  of  mechanics,  medicine,  archi 
tecture,  electricity,  chemistry  and  astronomy.  We  of  the 
East  have  profited  greatly  by  the  inventions  and  the 
progress  made  by  the  white  race.  We  should  be  ungrate 
ful  to  minimize  the  advantages  which  this  material  knowl 
edge  bestows.  I  myself  am  here  in  this  country  to  gain 
material  knowledge.  But  civilization  does  not  consist  of 
these  things.  They  are  the  exponents,  the  interpretations 
of  civilization.  Civilization  is  the  indwelling- — what  shall 
I  call  it? — the  indwelling  something,  the  spiritual  essence, 
the  contiguous  and  indivisible  force  underlying  all  these 
pleasant  and  agreeable  things." 

"I  think,"  said  Guido,  "that  is  what  the  Germans  mean 
by  'Kultur.'  " 

"The  great  boast  of  the  Germans  is  their  efficiency," 
Yomanato  continued.  "Now,  efficiency  concerns  the 
purely  material  world,  means  excellence  in  the  handling 
of  material  things.  But  civilization  delves  further  than 
that.  Civilization,  because  of  its  indwelling  force,  may 
and  does  make  for  outward  perfection.  But  when  that 
outward  perfection  becomes  an  end  in  itself,  when  it  is 
worshiped  for  its  own  sake  regardless  of  the  finer,  spiritual 
tendencies  to  which  it  is  due,  and  which,  en  bloc,  con 
stitute  civilization  proper,  then  civilization  is  endangered. 
And  the  greater  the  externalized  perfection,  the  greater 
the  danger  which  menaces  civilization.  For  the  vulgar 
confound  the  two,  lose  sight  of  the  impalpable  spiritual 
in  their  delight  in  the  tangible  physical." 

Guido  listened  with  growing  astonishment.  He  thought 
of  Stan  and  Otto,  of  their  disdainful  estimate  of  the 
Japanese.  How  callow  and  crude  all  that  seemed  now 
the  touchstone  of  Yomanato's  thoughts  and  conversation 
were  applied  to  Stan's  and  Otto's  theory  of  racial  in 
feriority.  Also  his  own  belief  in  the  general  infallibility 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  was  slightly  shaken.  He  was 
by  no  means  dull,  yet  he  experienced  some  difficulty  in 


YOUTH  497 

following  Yomanato's  philosophic  excursion.  He  had 
spoken  English  from  childhood,  if  not  from  the  cradle, 
but  he  could  not  have  clothed  his  thoughts  in  language  as 
fluent  and  lucid  as  that  of  Yomanato,  who  had  begun  to 
study  English  barely  five  years  ago. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  very  superficial,"  Guido  said,  thought 
fully.  "I've  never  thought  of  things  in  that  way  before." 

"You  are  far  from  being  a  sciolist,"  said  Yomanato, 
and  again  Guido  started.  The  fellow's  vocabulary  was 
staggering.  "I  have  observed  you  closely.  You  are  dif 
ferent  from  the  rest.  But — you  are  of  the  West.  Pardon. 
I  do  not  wish  to  offend.  But  the  genius  of  the  white 
races  and  the  genius  of  the  yellow  races  differ.  The 
tendencies  which  they  perpetuate  and  carry  on  diverge 
greatly." 

Guido  stared.    He  said  nothing.    He  was  entirely  at  sea. 

"You  said  before,"  Yomanato  continued,  "that  you  had 
no  belief.  You  are  mistaken.  You  have  a  belief,  but  you 
are  unaware  of  it.  It  underlies  all  your  doubt  and 
agnosticism.  Some  great  upheaval  will  bring  it  across  the 
threshold  to  you." 

"And  what,"  Guido  demanded,  "will  my  belief  be  when 
it  steps  across  the  threshold?" 

"Christianity." 

"Why  not  your  faith— Buddhism  ?  The  Eightfold  Path 
of  Virtue  is  as  fine  a  code  as  that  laid  down  by  the  Ten 
Commandments." 

"Ethics  do  not  constitute  a  religion.  Every  religion 
propounds  a  philosophy.  It  is  in  their  philosophy  that 
Buddhism  and  Christianity  differ  so  profoundly.  It  is 
because  you  are  of  the  Occident  that  I  predict  you  will 
ultimately  embrace  Christianity  and  not  Buddhism.  Even 
if  you  had  been  educated  in  Japan,  or  in  India,  in  a  Bud 
dhist  household,  you  would  probably  turn  to  Christianity 
the  moment  you  became  acquainted  with  it.  A  gosling 
takes  to  water  you  know,  a  chick  to  land." 

"I'll  be  blessed  if  I  know  what  you  are  talking  about," 
said  Guido. 

"Which  further  proves  my  contention,"  said  Yomanato, 
with  a  smile. 

Guido  felt  subtly  annoyed.  It  was  exasperating  to  have 
Yomanato  dispose  of  him  with  this  philosophic,  dispas- 


498  THE  HYPHEN 

sionate,  godlike  calm.  Yet  in  no  way  had  Yomanato  in 
sinuated  that  Christianity  was  inferior  to  Buddhism,  or 
that  the  white  races  were  inferior  to  the  yellow.  The  very 
distinct  impression  he  did  make,  by  what  subtle  channels 
Guido  could  not  have  said,  was  that  of  an  adult  addressing 
a  little  child,  and  humoring  it,  and  teasing  it  ever  so  little. 
Asia,  cradle  of  the  human  race,  mother  of  Europe,  grand 
mother  of  America,  was  smilingly  admitting  her  offspring's 
progressiveness,  conquest  of  the  material  world,  general 
abreastness  of  the  times.  To  please  her  offspring  she  was 
falling  in  with  its  ways.  Yet  all  the  while  she  wore  a 
smile — the  strange,  calm,  benignant,  baffling  smile  of 
Buddha,  proclaiming  anew  the  age-old  truth  that  knowl 
edge  is  not  wisdom,  that  accomplishment  is  not  achieve 
ment,  that  mastery  is  not  comprehension,  that  science  is 
not  civilization. 

"Won't  you  deign  to  explain  what  you  mean?"  Guido 
said. 

"With  pleasure.  I  think  you  will  embrace  Christianity 
because,  being  of  the  Occident,  you  are  highly  individual 
ized.  Christianity  is  an  individualized  religion,  the  religion 
of  individuals  and  of  individualization." 

Guido  stared.  He  did  not  comprehend.  Was  Japan  not 
highly  individualized  as  a  people? 

"Not  in  your  sense." 

"My  sense?  Our  sense?  I'm  dreadfully  stupid,  I'm 
afraid." 

"I  fear  I  can  explain  no  further,"  said  Yomanato. 

Something  in  his  manner  inhibited  Guido  from  pressing 
his  request.  The  youngest  scion  had  been  humored  long 
enough  by  its  granddame.  "So  far,"  said  the  granddame, 
"and  no  further.  When  you  have  lived  as  long  as  I  have, 
you  may  hope  to  begin  to  comprehend  the  things  that  are 
worth  while.  Meanwhile  you  are  young,  almost  infantile, 
and  you  have  a  young,  almost  an  infantile  religion  adapted 
to  your  needs.  Be  content  and  wait.  Youth  has  many 
gifts.  It  should  not  grudge  old  age  its  one  inalienable  pos 
session — wisdom." 

After  a  few  moments  of  silence,  Yomanato  said: 

"I  am  sorry  I  cannot  be  more  explicit.  Perhaps  it  will 
help  you  if  I  say  that  one's  particular  faith  is  merely  a 
matter  of  temperament.  The  ethics  of  virtually  all  real 


YOUTH  499 

religions  are  the  same;  thus  the  individual  turns  naturally 
to  the  religion  capable  of  affording  him  the  greatest 
spiritual  support  and  solace.  That,  in  part,  was  what  I 
meant  when  I  said  you  would  ultimately  embrace  Chris 
tianity." 

"That's  rather  an  utilitarian  view  of  religion,  isn't  it?" 
Guido  said  rather  than  asked. 

A  strange  gleam,  as  of  intense  pleasure,  came  into  the 
Japanese's  eyes. 

"Is  the  Christian  faith  not  wholly  utilitarian?"  he  de 
manded.  "The  salvation  of  the  individual  soul  is,  as  I 
understand,  Christianity's  avowed  purpose." 

These  simple  words  made  a  very  remarkable  impression 
upon  Guido.  His  thoughts  seemed  to  reach  out  in  a  myriad 
directions  at  one  time.  Uncognizable  thoughts  seemed  to 
hover  on  the  brink  of  consciousness  and  draw  back  when 
finite  thought  sprang  forward  to  meet  them.  It  was  a 
moment  such  as  he  had  never  experienced  before,  a  mo 
ment,  which,  had  the  Japanese  not  been  unwilling  to  pursue 
the  subject,  might  have  initiated  Guido  into  a  spiritual 
realm  of  which,  as  yet,  he  had  no  conception.  But 
Yomanato  very  evidently  was  unwilling  to  say  more,  and 
the  legion  of  reflections  suggested  to  Guido  by  Yomanato's 
words  slipped  back  into  the  chasm  of  unconscious  thought 
until  a  new  stimulus  should  revivify  them. 

Guido  asked,  after  a  considerable  pause: 

"At  the  risk  of  giving  offense,  I  would  like  to  ask  you 
why  you  are  withholding  that  which  you  are  withholding?" 

Yomanato  regarded  Guido,  a  crystallized  smile  on  his 
lips.  Guido  had  yet  to  learn  that  this  particular  smile 
masked  emotions  as  turbulent  and  as  eager  as  any  which 
stirred  the  heart  of  the  most  high-strung  Occidental.  He 
had  also  to  learn  that  that  smiling  mask  was  the  outcome 
of  Japanese  etiquette  and  prescribed  by  it. 

When  the  Japanese  finally  answered,  it  was  in  smooth, 
flute-like  tone. 

"I  will  tell  why  I  am  withholding  that  which  I  am  with 
holding,"  he  said.  "If  my  words  seem  vague  and  shadowy, 
I  beg  you  not  to  press  me  to  be  definite.  My  father,  as 
a  young  man,  worked  for  a  Japanese  firm  in  New  York 
for  a  period  of  eight  years.  Through  him  I  learned  much 
of  Occidental  life,  religions,  traditions  and  thought.  Since 


5oo  THE  HYPHEN 

I  was  fourteen  years  old  I  have  cherished  a  hope,  a  won 
derful  hope,  which  embraces  the  East  and  West.  It  con 
cerns  them  conjointly. 

"I  must  not  tell  you  more  about  that  hope  excepting  only 
this:  that  it  will  be  given  to  some  Occidental  to  see  things 
as  I  see  them.  That  I  shall  take  as  a  sign.  More  than 
that  I  cannot  say." 

Guido  bent  forward  eagerly. 

"You  wish  me  to  divine  what  this  secret  wish  of  yours 
is  so  that  I  may  share  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  would  like  to  put  it  a  little  differently.  I  would  like 
you  to  arrive  at  the  same  conclusions  as  myself  unaided  by 
anything  I  may  say.  The  facts  are  open  to  all.  But  if 
there  is  truth  in  my  idea,  if  it  is  something  more  than  the 
dream  of  an  Oriental  visionary,  it  will,  it  must  occur  to 
an"  Occidental  as  well  as  to  myself.  Therefore  my  lips 
are  sealed.  You  must  arrive  at  the  same  goal  as  myself 
uninfluenced,  and  without  bias." 

Guido  rose  abruptly  and  began  walking  the  floor  with 
ferocious  strides.  Were  all  the  powers  of  darkness  leagued 
against  him?  Always  the  same  cry — no  bias.  Apparently 
every  sentient  being  in  the  world  was  permitted  a  bias 
save  only  himself. 

"The  peculiar  education  which  you  have  enjoyed  and  of 
which  you  told  me  just  now,"  Yomanato  continued,  "should 
be  an  admirable  preparation  for " 

Guido  interrupted  him  furiously. 

"No  bias,"  he  cried,  "no  bias!  You  were  brought  up 
with  a  bias,  weren't  you?  Why  was  I  alone  among  men 
denied  the  privilege  of  a  religious  faith?  The  privilege 
of  being  furnished  with  a  ready-made  staff  and  support?" 

Yomanato's  smile  broadened,  became  more  human. 

"When  you  have  found  the  particular  staff  that  suits 
your  temperament,"  he  said,  "you  will  think  differently. 
You  will  realize  that  much  is  to  be  said  in  favor  of  no 
bias.  Meanwhile," — Guido  was  still  marching  up  and  down 
the  room — "I  beg  your  pardon  in  advance,  but  would  you 
mind  very  much  reseating  yourself?  The  mother  of  my 
landlady  occupies  the  apartment  under  us  and  she  is  ill." 

Guido  plumped  himself  back  in  his  chair.  Would  he 
never  learn  to  overcome  the  habit  of  promenading  about 
noisily  late  at  night? 


YOUTH  501 

"I  beg  your  pardon  a  thousand  times,"  he  said. 

"In  a  way,"  Yomanato  continued,  "my  education  was 
similar  to  yours.  My  father,  if  he  had  lived,  I  think  would 
have  embraced  Christianity.  I  heard  as  much  about  Jesus 
in  my  home  as  about  Buddha." 

"You  told  me  before  that  you  followed  both  Shinto  and 
Buddhism,"  Guido  said,  a  little  ironically.  "It  is  not  im 
possible,  I  suppose,  that  you  will  some  day  embrace  Chris 
tianity  as  well." 

"It  is  not  impossible,"  said  Yomanato  with  his  inscrutable 
smile. 

The  two  young  men  talked  until  midnight.  They  talked 
of  many  things  besides  religion.  Yomanato,  who  seemed 
remarkably  well  informed,  spoke  of  the  literature  and  art 
of  Japan,  of  her  social  customs,  home-life,  traditions. 
Guido,  when  he  finally  put  out  his  hand  to  bid  his  host 
good-night,  felt  not  only  that  he  had  made  a  friend  but 
that  he  had  paid  a  flying  visit  to  Nippon  and  that  it  had 
been  well  worth  while. 

Stan  and  Otto  notwithstanding. 

And  Stan,  we  may  be  sure,  baited  and  plagued  and  teased 
Guido  upon  his  new  acquisition.  Were  the  Japs  included 
in  the  great  Race  Equality  Theory?  Didn't  they,  self- 
confessedly,  owe  everything  they  knew  to  the  Occident? 
Literature?  Art?  Surely  no  one  could  take  Japanese 
painting  seriously.  Their  wood-carving  and  all  that  was 
well  enough,  but  art  alone  neither  made  nor  advanced 
civilization. 

At  this  point  Guido  said  savagely: 

"Stan,  you  are  a  barbarian.  A  vandal.  The  Japs  had 
a  civilization  of  their  own,  a  highly  developed  civilization 
when  Europe,  not  to  speak  of  America,  was  in  its  swaddling 
clothes." 

"Whew,"  Stan  laughed,  "upon  my  word,  you  really  like 
the  fellow." 

"I  really  do." 

"Niggers  will  be  next,  I  suppose,  to  enter  your  family 
of  Equal  Races." 

Guido  bit  his  lip. 

"Pity  there  isn't  a  nigger  in  our  class  to  fraternize 
with,"  Al  Dalton,  a  boy  from  Alabama,  threw  in.  "You'd 
make  friends  with  him,  too,  wouldn't  you,  Guy?" 


502  THE  HYPHEN 

"Perhaps  I  would  and  perhaps  I  wouldn't,"  said  Guido, 
shortly. 

"Well,  if  there  was  a  nigger  in  our  class,  I  wouldn't  sit 
down  with  him,  I'd  quit,"  Dalton  remarked,  composedly. 
"Hanged  if  I'd  sit  down  in  the  same  room  with  a  nigger." 

"I'm  not  going  to  fight  the  Civil  War  all  over  with  you 
again,  Al,"  said  Guido.  "I  do  think,  though,  that  the  race 
prejudice  you  and  Stan  show  is  rotten.  It  may  jar  you 
a  little  to  learn  that  the  negroes  consider  themselves 
superior,  as  a  race,  to  the  white." 

"Where  did  you  get  that  from?"  Stan  demanded. 

"The  waiter  in  a  restaurant  where  I  sometimes  eat  told 
me  the  other  day  that  the  negro  race  was  descended  from 
King  Solomon — referred  me  to  the  Bible  for  the  corrobora- 
tion  that  Solomon  was  a  negro." 

The  boys  roared  with  laughter. 

"There  are,  of  course,"  Guido  continued,  "natural  in 
equalities  among  races  as  among  individuals  of  the  same 
race  which  no  law  decreed  by  man  can  obliterate.  But  that 
does  not  invalidate  the  Declaration  of  Independence.  It 
merely  points  to  the  fact  that  it  behooves  the  men  and 
women  at  the  top  to  practice  chivalry  in  the  form  of  kind 
ness  to  human  beings  less  fortunately  circumstanced  in  the 
way  of  mental  equipment  than  themselves.  That  is  a  form 
of  loyalty  which  is  almost  extinct.  The  modern  employer 
exacts  loyalty  from  his  employee.  Until  recently  no  em 
ployer  thought  that  he  owed  loyalty  to  his  employee.  The 
feeling  seems  to  be  coming  into  the  fashion  now  with  some 
big  concerns.  The  South  before  the  Civil  War  understood 
that  perfectly.  The  better  class  of  planters  showed  in 
every  way  that  they  felt  the  moral  obligation  of  caring  for 
their  slaves  spiritually.  So  you  needn't  pretend,  Dalton, 
that  I'm  talking  bosh.  Incidentally,  the  religion  of  Japan 
insists  upon  loyalty  being  shown  in  both  directions,  top  and 
bottom,  not  merely  from  the  bottom  up.  And  that  to  me 
sounds  quite  civilized." 

"Oh,  gee,"  said  Dalton,  "if  I  listen  to  more  of  this 
highbrow  stuff,  I'll  be  as  soggy  as  a  sinker." 

They  had  reached  Dalton's  boarding-place  and  he  was 
about  to  leave  them  when  a  shrill  whistle  brought  him  and 
the  other  boys  to  attention.  Otto  was  coming  up  the  street, 


YOUTH  503 

hatless,  coatless,  a  young  giant  in  stature,  books  tucked 
under  his  arm,  whistling  lustily. 

"There  comes  my  German  tutor,"  said  Dalton,  "just  look 
at  him,  look  at  him.  Wouldn't  it  turn  you  green  with 
envy?  The  muscle  that  fellow  has  is  tremenjous." 

Otto,  unfortunately,  was  in  one  of  his  most  iniquitous 
war-moods.  He  began  lauding  the  marvelous  prowess  of 
the  Germans,  declaimed  violently  against  England  and  con 
cluded  with  a  bitter  arraignment  of  President  Wilson. 

"Issues  a  Prayer-for-Peace-Proclamation  and  allows  am 
munition  to  be  sent  abroad,"  he  cried.  "If  he  were  sincere 
in  his  desire  for  peace,  wouldn't  he  help  bring  it  about 
by  placing  an  embargo  on  the  shipment  of  ammunition? 
He's  an  arch-hypocrite.  He  and  Grey  are  the  prototypes 
of  all  hypocries — he  has  it  in  his  face — anyhow." 

"Anyhow — has  he?"  Stan's  eyes  were  not  good  to  look 
at.  "Look  here,  Baumgarten,  I  don't  quite  like  that  last 
remark  of  yours.  It  was  too  personal.  Supposing  you 
modify  it." 

"Modify  nothing,"  said  Otto,  stoutly.  "He's  got  it  in  his 
face.  Lying,  canting  hypocrite." 

"I  advise  you  once  more  to  retract  that  statement,"  Stan 
repeated.  "Much  as  I  disapprove  of  Billy  Hohenzollern, 
I  would  never  call  him  the  names  I  think  he  deserves  in 
your  presence  because  I'd  hate  to  hurt  your  feelings.  You 
are  an  American  and  you  are  living  in  this  country  and  so 
am  I.  And  if  you  don't  retract  there'll  be  trouble." 

"Well,  I  won't  retract,"  said  Otto,  doggedly.  "That  fakir 
in  the  White  House  is  just  what  I  said  he  was.  Anyhow, 
you  can't  expect  the  same  consideration  to  be  shown  a 
President  as  an  Emperor." 

"Say,  you  don't  belong  here,"  said  Stan. 

"Oh,  cut  it  out,"  said  Otto  gruffly.  "I  didn't  know  you 
were  a  Democrat." 

"I'm  not,"  said  Stan.  "Our  family  has  been  black  Re 
publican  since  the  year  one.  But  that  doesn't  affect  my 
position  in  the  least.  In  times  like  these  I  do  not  choose  to 
hear  the  President  spoken  of  in  language  as  scurrilous  as 
that  employed  by  yourself.  Even  if  he  were  not  the  great 
statesman  he  is." 

"Well,  I  won't  eat  my  own  words,"  said  Otto.  "I'll  be 
hanged  if  I  do." 


S04  THE  HYPHEN 

"You'll  be  drubbed  if  you  don't,"  said  Stan. 

"Drubbed?  Oh,  my  stars.  By  whom?  You?"  Otto's 
stalwart  form  towered  a  good  half-foot  above  Stan's 
Gibson-like  figure,  which  seemed  to  betoken  elegance  rather 
than  strength.  He  laughed  easily,  almost  good-naturedly. 

"It's  only  fair,"  said  Stan,  "to  tell  you  I've  been  learning 
how  to  box  and  how  to  wrestle." 

"Are  you  threatening  me?" 

"Yum-yum,"  said  Stan,  which  syllables  of  obscure  mean 
ing  seemed  to  infuriate  Otto  incredibly. 

"We'll  fight  it  out  on  the  football  grounds,"  said  Otto, 
shortly. 

"Oh,  gee,"  said  Dalton,  "if  you  knock  out  my  German 
tutor,  Stan,  I'll  flunk  again  as  sure  as  God  made  little 
apples.  That  beastly  German  Accusative." 

"Don't  worry,"  said  Otto  grimly,  "he  won't  knock  me 
out." 

And  yet,  after  all,  Stan  did  knock  Otto  out.  Otto  had 
the  superior  weight  but  Stan  had  science.  Otto  rushed 
again  and  again  upon  Stan's  slim-looking  fist,  and  again 
and  again  came  away,  bruised,  smarting  with  pain  and  with 
the  sense  of  impending  defeat.  Then,  a  quick  wrench,  a 
quick  twist  of  the  wrist  on  Stan's  part,  and  Otto's  hercu 
lean  form  swung  violently  through  the  air  and  with  a 
resounding  thud  thwacked  down  upon  the  frozen  earth. 
For  a  moment  he  lay  stunned,  and  Guido  experienced  a 
horrid  sensation  in  the  lower  region  of  the  abdomen, 
and,  in  spite  of  the  stress  of  the  moment  he  found  time  to 
reflect  that  this  extraordinary  sense  of  physical  nausea  ex 
plained  the  old  English  expression  "to  have  no  bowels," 
which  until  that  moment  he  had  considered  an  inelegant 
survival  from  days  when  human  beings  quartered  other 
human  beings  and  brutality  of  language  ran  parallel  with 
brutality  of  conduct. 

Otto  came  to  in  time  and  was  set  on  his  feet  by  Stan 
and  Al  Dalton,  who,  all  the  while  bitterly  lamented  that 
there  would  be  no  lesson  in  German  that  day.  Stan  and 
Otto  shook  hands  warmly.  The  hatchet  between  them  was 
buried.  Otto  was  badly  bruised  and  his  nose  was  bleeding 
profusely.  Stan  supplied  him  with  an  extra  handkerchief, 
and  the  faithful  Dalton  helped  his  tutor  and  his  hero  home. 
Otto  declined  the  proffer  of  Guido's  arm.  Guido,  while  the 


YOUTH  505 

others  were  trying  to  get  Otto  his  feet,  had  been  mopping 
the  sweat  and  the  blood  from  his  face.  His  face  was  quite 
as  white  as  Otto's,  and  Otto  said,  briefly: 

"I'm  all  right,  Guido.  Don't  worry.  Look  after  your 
self." 

Guido  winced.  The  kindliness,  the  lack  of  resentment 
which  Otto  was  showing  made  him  vow  that  never  again, 
War  or  no  War,  would  he  quarrel  with  Otto. 

"You  know,"  Stan  said,  after  Dalton  and  Otto  were 
gone,  "I  hated  to  do  it.  Baumgarten  is  such  an  awfully 
decent  sort.  And  he  certainly  took  his  punishment  like  a 
man." 

"Otto's  fine,"  Guido  said  briefly.  "What  gets  me — and 
I  can't  get  over  it — is  how  he  can  be  a  pro." 

"That's  what  makes  war,"  said  Stan. 

"By  the  way,  I  thought  you  didn't  care  a  fig  about  the 
War,"  Guido  commented,  dispassionately. 

"Oh,  h — 1,"  Stan  rejoined,  "I'm  a  raving  lunatic  about 
this  little  old  War.  What's  the  use  of  mouthing  it  if  one 
cannot  go  and  fight?  I've  plagued  the  life  out  of  the  folks 
at  home,  I  want  to  go  so  badly.  The  Guv'nor  is  set  against 
it  on  principle.  So  long  as  we  are  not  in  it  he  thinks 
Americans  ought  to  keep  away,  excepting  for  Red  Cross 
work.  He  says  my  life  is  not  my  own  to  offer  another 
country  at  so  critical  a  time.  It  belongs  to  Uncle  Sam. 
I've  got  the  Guv'nor's  promise,  though,  not  to  oppose  my 
enlisting  as  soon  as  we're  in  the  War.  Darned  little  I'd 
care  for  his  permission  if  I  were  of  age.  If  for  nothing 
else,  I'd  like  to  see  the  boches  at  close  range.  One  can't 
help  wondering  just  what  has  struck  'em  all  to  make  'em 
cut  the  capers  they're  going  through." 

"Cecil  said,"  Guido  rejoined,  "that  the  Germans  have 
gone  morally  insane." 

"The  Guv'nor  says  they're  in  a  state  of  moral  under- 
development.  As  a  nation — not  individuals,  of  course. 
Like  the  South  at  the  time  of  the  Civil  War.  I  suppose 
you  know  that  Dalton  still  thinks  slavery  was  a  divine 
institution." 

"How  can  he?" 

"Thinks  the  negro  rather  than  the  South  was  wronged 
by  the  abolition  of  Slavery." 

"Ye  gods!"     Then,  after  a  pause  Guido  added: 


5o6  THE  HYPHEN 

"I  suppose,  as  you  remarked  before,  it's  that  that  makes 
modern  wars — when  two  sovereign  people  or  large  national 
units  disagree  as  to  the  morality  of  a  thing." 

"Sounds  good  to  me,"  said  Stan  in  his  offhand  way. 

"You  know,"  said  Guido,  "the  South,  in  some  ways, 
misbehaved  in  much  the  same  way  that  Germany  is  mis 
behaving  now.  Germany  feels  no  compunction  in  shooting 
down  innocent  civilians  by  the  hundreds  because  some  poor 
crazed  devil  gets  to  sniping  at  a  German  soldier.  I  told 
Otto  the  other  day  that  all  our  famous  minute  men  were 
nothing  but  a  lot  of  snipers." 

"Proceed,"  said  Stan.     He  was  grinning  broadly. 

"The  South  refused  to  treat  negro  soldiers  as  captives. 
They  were  treated  as  animals  who  had  attacked  their 
owners.  At  Fort  Pillow  three  hundred  Union  soldiers 
were  butchered  in  cold  blood  because  they  were  colored 
men.  The  Confederacy  went  so  far  as  to  threaten  that 
commissioned  officers  of  the  North  employed  in  drilling 
and  instructing  negroes  as  soldiers,  would,  if  captured,  not 
be  treated  as  prisoners  of  war,  but  as  ordinary  felons." 

"How  do  you  manage  to  remember  all  that?"  Stan  in 
quired. 

"You  know,"  said  Guido,  "remembering  that  sort  of 
thing  makes  one  hopeful  for  the  future.  At  present  one's 
so  apt  to  think  that  Germans  have  placed  themselves  out 
side  the  pale  of  civilization  for  good.  Parallels  of  that 
sort  make  one  feel  there  is  hope — even  for  Germany. 
There's  one  point  and  one  only  which  I  think  the  Germans 
are  partially  justified  in  making  against  us.  Though  I 
wouldn't  admit  it  for  worlds  in  speaking  to  Otto.  Am 
munition." 

"We  are  right  according  to  international  law,"  said  Stan. 

"Yes,  but  are  we  right  ethically,  humanly?" 

"There  are  lots  of  people  who  haven't  a  drop  of  German 
blood  who  feel  the  way  you  do,"  said  Stan.  The  mater 
does.  But,  look  here.  Our  sympathy  is  all  with  the  Allies. 
It  would  be  unnatural,  wouldn't  it,  that  being  so,  if  we 
were  not  to  avail  ourselves  of  the  right  to  send  them  am 
munition  allowed  us  by  international  law  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Guido.  "Nevertheless,  I  can't  help  worry 
ing  about  that  ammunition  business.  I'm  not  questioning 
our  legal  right.  I  suppose  there  is  some  deeper  reason  for 


YOUTH  507 

it  which  we  fail  to  apprehend.  But,  are  we  right  morally? 
Humanly?  Ethically?  I'm  even  willing  to  concede  that  we 
are  right  humanly.  But  ethically?" 

"Isn't  humanly  and  ethically  the  same?" 

"I  think  not.  If  I  give  a  murderer  who  is  dying  shelter 
and  hide  him  from  the  police,  I  am  humanly  right.  I  am 
ethically  wrong  because  in  allowing  compassion  to  super 
sede  justice  I  am  helping  to  let  justice  miscarry." 

"What  in  heaven's  name  are  you  trying  to  do?"  Stan 
demanded.  "Are  you  squaring  the  circle?" 

"No,  I'm  sticking  to  Euclid  closer  than  that.  I'm  trying 
to  find  out  whether  the  three  angles  of  an  equilateral  triangle 
are  really  equal.  My  dilemna  arises  from  the  fact  that  I 
don't  know  which  angle  is  to  serve  as  the  standard." 

"Well,"  said  Stan,  as  they  parted  at  his  door,  "I  don't 
mind  telling  you,  Guy,  that  you  have  a  head  on  your 
shoulders.  I'd  trade  my  physique  against  yours  any  day 
if  I  could  get  your  strong  memory  along  with  your  weak 
back." 

Guido  flushed  a  dull  brick-red. 

"Are  you  stringing  me  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Stringing!"  Stan  laughed.    "My  dear  chap,  s'long!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

GUIDO'S  sorrows,  it  will  be  observed,  were  multiply 
ing.  The  U-boats,  Caesar  Borgias  of  the  sea,  were 
outvying  each  other  in  wanton  brutal  destructiveness,  and 
thus  a  new  and — so  far  as  America  was  concerned — greater 
issue  of  the  War  was  broached.  Tales  were  being  told 
of  incredible  barbarity  both  at  sea  and  on  land.  The 
murdering  of  civilians,  the  burning  of  villages,  the  bomb 
ing  of  unfortified  towns  continued;  and  added  to  all  these 
horrors  was  the  new  sea-terror. 

Guido,  like  many  an  unhyphenated  American,  still  clung 
to  the  fantastic  hope  that  these  tales  were  grimly  exag 
gerated.  Germany  was  wrong,  dead  wrong  politically,  but 
that  was  no  reason  why  every  German  should  have  turned 
himself  into  a  robber  and  pirate.  But  this  hope,  flimsy 
from  the  start,  soon  became  as  tenuous  as  air. 

The  Bryce  report  placed  Germany  in  so  damnable  a  light 
that  the  continued  efforts  to  whitewash  her  on  the  part  of 
her  sworn  partisans  would  have  been  laughable  if  the  issues 
involved  had  been  less  tragic  and  far-reaching. 

There  was,  moreover,  a  detail  which  eloquently  pro 
claimed  Germany's  guilt  and  the  guilt  of  Germans  as 
well  as  of  Germany,  a  detail  which  corresponded  to  the 
internal  evidence  which  is  so  highly  esteemed  by  seekers 
after  truth  in  literary  fields.  The  Germans  in  the  United 
States  not  merely  remained  pro-German  in  face  of  the 
uncontrovertible  evidence  of  the  Bryce  report,  not  merely 
continued  their  irrational,  insensate  tirades  against  Eng 
land,  not  merely  continued  to  berate  all  who  condemned 
Germany,  calling  them  knaves,  idiots  and  liars,  not  merely 
tried  to  turn  the  sword  of  truth  aside  with  the  ancient 
slogan  "English  lies" ;  but,  lulled  into  security  by  America's 
strange  tolerance  of  their  intolerance,  their  hypocrisy  and 
their  blood-guilt,  they  now  began  to  boast  and  brag  of 
Germany's  exploits,  to  hold  up  for  emulation  her  detest 
able,  soulless,  machine-like,  overdisciplined  efficiency. 

508 


YOUTH  509 

Women  as  well  as  men  gloated  over  the  vision  of  towns 
sacked  and  pillaged  and  looted,  and  licked  their  chops 
greedily  in  ghoulish  anticipation  of  the  thirty-five  million 
Marks  which  the  Germans  intended  to  wring  out  of  ex- 
sanguined  and  eviscerated  Belgium — blood-money  as  ghast- 
lily  sinister  as  Judas  Iscariot's  thirty  pieces  of  silver. 
They  smiled  wickedly  on  hearing  that  Belgians  were  being 
deported  to  Germany.  Belgians  were  notoriously  lazy — 
the  lesson  of  enforced  labor  would  do  them  good.  One 
German  woman — a  lady  she  termed  herself  and  would  have 
been  termed  by  others  by  every  token  of  habiliment,  speech 
and  appearance — was  heard  to  remark  that  there  wasn't 
a  virtuous  woman  in  all  Belgium,  and  the  raping  of  Bel 
gium  women,  therefore,  was  not  a  crime. 

The  pro-Germans  of  America,  in  brief,  were  following 
the  lead  given  them  by  the  German  government  which,  to 
check  the  outbreak  of  American  indignation  on  Belgium's 
behalf,  was  circulating  a  wild  story  of  documents  found 
in  the  Belgian  archives  which,  they  claimed,  were  detri 
mental  to  German  security.  This  tale,  a  German  fabrica 
tion,  of  course,  was  intended  to  undermine  Belgian  honor 
and  to  corroborate  Germany's  preposterous  accusation  that 
the  Triple  Alliance  had  entered  into  a  conspiracy  to  dis 
member  Germany.  Belgium,  this  story  further  affirmed, 
when  the  time  was  ripe,  had  promised  to  allow  the  British 
and  the  French  to  walk  through  Belgium  into  Germany. 

Having  disemboweled  Belgium  first,  Germany  then  de 
famed  her,  thus  placing  herself  in  the  identical  position 
of  a  man  who,  having  raped  a  woman,  assails  her  good 
name  to  minimize  his  own  crime. 

The  pro-Germans  avidly  seized  upon  this  wild  yarn.  It 
did  not  trouble  them  in  the  least  that  Germany,  being  a 
bankrupt  in  truthfulness,  could  not  gain  credence  for  so 
grotesque  a  tale  unsupported  by  the  word  of  a  veracious 
power. 

The  evidence  against  Germany,  in  brief,  was  now  so 
plain  as  to  be  unmistakable  to  all  excepting  the  willfully 
blind.  But  the  number  of  those  German-Americans  who 
refused  to  believe  the  sworn  statements  of  reliable  wit 
nesses,  and  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  conscience,  remained 
appallingly  large.  Bound  by  the  strongest  and  the  most 
ignoble  fetters  conceivable — race  prejudice,  tribal  arrogance 


5io  THE  HYPHEN 

and  a  wicked  pride — they  persisted  in  their  hatred  and 
mercilessness  for  all  peoples  not  German. 

It  was  no  longer  possible,  Guido  thought — unjustly  per 
haps — to  discriminate  narrowly  between  conscious  knaves 
and  unconscious  dupes.  The  two  classes  of  pro-Germans 
seemed  now  to  overlap,  to  intermingle  and  to  intertwine. 

The  perverted  ethical  sense  of  the  Germans  now  stood 
out  with  startling  distinctness. 

Eddie  Erdman,  on  hearing  of  the  enormous  sum  ex 
pended  by  England  in  fitting  out  a  castle  in  the  north  of 
England  for  German  officers  taken  as  prisoners  of  war, 
laughed  contemptuously. 

"English  hypocrisy,  of  course,"  he  said.  "England  pub 
lishes  the  story  of  her  magnanimity  in  order  to  blind  silly 
fools  like  the  Americans  to  her  part  in  the  making  of  the 
War."  And  when  his  attention  was  called  to  the  stories 
of  German  cruelty  to  their  prisoners  of  war,  he  exclaimed : 
"Intelligent  Germans  do  not  believe  every  slander  they 
hear,  especially  as  the  story  comes  through  enemy  channels. 
The  German  cables  were  cut  for  a  reason,  you  know." 

It  was  precisely  this  dishonest,  covert  way  of  meeting 
accusation  which  seemed  to  offer  indubitable  proof  that 
the  amazing  obtuseness  of  the  average  German-American 
was  largely  an  assumed  and  not  a  natural  disability. 

But  the  German- American  methods  of  argument  did  not 
always  partake  of  indirection.  They  were  at  times  quite 
childishly,  marvelously  direct  and  unashamed. 

It  was  an  old  lady  famed  throughout  the  county  for 
her  benevolence  and  integrity  who  exclaimed,  on  hearing 
of  the  sinking  by  U-boats  of  three  merchantmen  in  one 
day  at  a  time  when  the  horror  of  the  scientific  piracy  in 
augurated  by  the  Germans  was  still  wearing  all  its  young 
verdure:  "Amazing!  What  other  nation  could  do  the 
same?"  A  delicious  bit  of  unconscious  irony  which  could 
not  have  been  bettered  by  Swift. 

It  was  a  youngish  man,  a  man  not  merely  of  probity, 
of  honor  but  of  splendid,  red-corpuscled  kindness  in  every 
private  relation  of  life  who,  on  hearing  of  the  German  ill- 
treatment  of  prisoners,  said: 

"All  this  fuss  is  ridiculous.  War  is  inhuman.  Every 
body  knows  that.  But  why  the  life  of  a  man  whom  it  was 
the  duty  of  Germans  to  kill  or  injure  while  at  large  should, 


YOUTH  511 

through  the  mere  condition  of  his  being  taken  captive,  be 
came  sacred,  I  cannot  see." 

This  sort  of  thing  was  not  merely  incomprehensible,  it 
was  baffling.  Guido,  on  hearing  of  these  sayings,  was 
struck  by  their  intrinsic  unmorality.  It  brought  home  to 
him  anew  the  charge  which  was  beginning  to  be  made  by 
intelligent  people:  the  German  mind  was  not  as  other 
minds.  It  was  in  a  class  by  itself.  Its  conclusions,  log 
ically  and  correctly  deduced  were  false  and  unmoral  be 
cause  deduced  from  false  and  unmoral  premises.  Their 
entire  argumentation  savored  of  what  Macaulay,  in  a  preg 
nant  phrase,  termed  "the  legerdemain  of  sophistry." 

The  pro-Germans  seemed  bent  upon  exterminating  all 
saner  emotions  in  themselves  as  ruthlessly  as  they  advo 
cated  the  extermination  of  their  enemies. 

Envy,  too,  masquerading  as  justice,  underlay  much  of  the 
pro-German  sympathy. 

"Germany  should  have  an  empire  as  great  as  England's," 
said  Dr.  Erdman.  "She  is  entitled  to  it." 

"Is  that  why  Germany  went  to  war?"  Guido  inquired. 

"Not  at  all.  Of  course  Germany  wants  her  place  in 
the  sun.  But  principally  Germany  wants  the  freedom  of 
the  seas." 

"But  the  seas  are  free,  or  were,  until  the  submarines 
began  to  ply  their  nefarious  trade,"  Guido  rejoined. 

"Were  they?  I  think  not.  England,  with  her  enormous 
fleet  can  at  any  time  blockade  any  part  of  the  world  she 
choses  to  blockade." 

"But  England  has  never  made  arbitrary  use  of  this 
power,"  Guido  demurred,  "any  more  than  we  would  think 
of  barring  vessels  from  the  Panama  Canal  without  cause." 

"But  England's  power  exists  and  this  is  sufficient  to  make 
the  seas  unfree,"  Dr.  Erdman  persisted.  "It  is  intoler 
able." 

"Look  here,  Doc,"  said  Guido,  "American  Common  Law, 
like  English  Common  Law,  assumes  a  man  to  be  innocent 
until  he  is  proven  guilty.  The  Germans  and  Austrians,  I 
understand,  reverse  that  and  assume  that  a  suspect  is  guilty 
until  he  has  proven  himself  innocent.  Now,  that  answers 
your  argument,  I  think.  And  that  also  is  one  of  the  in 
visible  bends  which  unite  England  and  the  U.  S.  A. — 
one  of  the  bonds  which  Germans  deliberately  ignore." 


5i2  THE  HYPHEN 

Dr.  Erdman  laughed.  He  and  Guido  had  met  in  front 
of  his  home,  where  they  were  still  standing  while  this 
conversation  took  place.  Otto,  passing  on  some  errand, 
joined  them. 

"Well,  don't  feel  so  bad,  Guido,"  Dr.  Erdman  said.  "If 
the  quarrel  were  between  our  country  and  Germany,  or 
were  to  shift  around  to  include  us,  we  would,  of  course, 
side  with  the  U.  S.  A.  and  fight  under  the  Stars  and 
Stripes." 

It  was  the  same  old  imbecile  asseveration  which  Guido 
had  heard  so  often  before.  And  this  from  a  man  of  ex 
ceptional  mental  endowments  and  blameless  integrity. 

Otto,  for  the  first  time,  put  in  his  oar. 

"And  all  this  hollering  about  the  hospital  ship  which 
the  Germans  sunk  the  other  day !"  he  exclaimed. 

"They  sunk  it,  of  course,  because  they  suspected  that 
the  English  had  been  using  it  as  a  transport,"  said  Dr. 
Erdman. 

"But  not  on  that  particular  trip,"  Guido  exclaimed.  "It 
was  homeward  bound  from  France." 

"Well,"  said  Otto,  "they  probably  had  been  using  it  as 
a  transport  and  would  have  done  so  again.  So  where's 
the  odds?" 

"There  were  wounded  men  on  board,  Otto,"  said  Dr. 
Erdman.  "It  was — in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  Germans 
were  technically  right — a  despicable  thing  to  do." 

Otto  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He,  too,  evidently  did  not 
see  that  captivity  or  being  wounded  should  assure  a  former 
enemy  certain  humane  privileges. 

Dr.  Erdman  smiled  subtly. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "if  you  were  a  physician,  Otto,  you 
would  understand." 

All  Guide's  anger  against  Dr.  Erdman  vanished  in  a 
moment.  Surely,  there  was  still  hope  of  his  conversion. 

"Well,"  Otto  grumbled,  "I  may  be  very  inhumane,  but  I 
cannot  see  that  it's  any  less  inhumane  to  sink  a  ship  with 
say  five  hundred  men,  not  damaged,  who  are  going  to  war, 
than  to  sink  a  ship  with  five  hundred  men,  injured,  but 
not  beyond  hope  of  recovery,  men,  who  once  they  are  back 
on  the  battlefield  may  kill  off  a  thousand  of  your  own  men. 
All  this  mawkish  sentimentality,  it  seems  to  me,  is  incom 
patible  with  the  spirit  of  war." 


YOUTH  513 

"You  are  not  aware,  it  seems,"  said  Guido,  "that  Fred 
erick  the  Great,  unscrupulous  as  he  was  in  breaking  treaties 
and  helping  himself  to  other  people's  territory,  admonished 
his  soldiers  to  show  clemency  to  the  vanquished  enemy." 

Otto  looked  uncomfortable. 

"You're  not  a  bit  chivalrous,  Otto,'  said  Dr.  Erdman. 

"By  the  way,  there  is  no  word  in  German  for  'chivalry/  " 
said  Guido.  "Sociologists  point  out  that  the  conception  of 
a  moral  or  mental  attribute  must  precede  its  name  in  the 
national  consciousness.  So,  from  the  fact  that  the  German 
language  is  destitute  of  the  word  'chivalry/  we  can  draw 
our  own  conclusions." 

Otto  became  violently  angry,  and,  as  usual  when  angry, 
the  hobble-de-hoy,  childishly  futile  Otto  came  to  the  fore. 

"You  think  you're  real  smart  with  all  that  highbrow 
stuff  you  are  forever  reeling  off,"  he  said.  "You  make  me 
sick.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed." 

"Guide's  right,  though,"  Dr.  Erdman  interrupted,  in  his 
gentle  way.  "At  least  as  far  as  his  sociological  comments 
are  concerned.  I'm  no  German  scholar.  Is  there  really  no 
word  in  German  for  'chivalry  ?'  " 

"Of  course  there  is,"  Otto  grumbled,  indignantly.  "It's 
— it's — I  don't  seem  remember.  But  I'm  sure " 

"If  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  consult  the  dictionary, 
Otto,"  Guido  said,  pleasantly,  "you  will  find  that  Ritter- 
lichkeit  is  given  as  the  German  equivalent  of  'chivalry.' 
But,  if  you  have  a  fine  sense  for  delicate  shades  of  mean 
ing,  you  will  know  that  it  is  not  just  the  same." 

"But  if  the  dictionary  says  so,  it's  so,"  said  Otto,  dog 
matically. 

Dr.  Erdman  and  Guido  exchanged  glances,  and  both 
laughed.  This  further  infuriated  Otto.  To  avoid  further 
argument,  Guido  said: 

"I  must  be  going." 

"Wait,"  said  Otto,  "I'll  go  with  you." 

"I'm  not  going  in  your  direction,"  said  Guido,  quickly. 

"And  which  is  my  direction  ?"  Otto  inquired,  suspiciously. 

"Opposite  to  mine,"  said  Guido.  Guido  and  Dr.  Erd 
man  were  both  laughing  again,  and  after  a  moment,  Otto 
laughed  also. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  we  would  only  go  on 
bickering." 


5i4  THE  HYPHEN 

As  has  been  pointed  out  before,  Bismarck  Street  pos 
sessed  the  peculiarity,  pleasant  or  otherwise  that,  on  a 
bright  afternoon,  no  Anasquoitian  might  traverse  it  with 
out  encountering  at  least  half  a  dozen  acquaintances. 
Guido,  a  block  further  down,  encountered  the  Theater- 
direktorin,  whom  he  had  not  seen  since  the  day  of  the 
coffee — and  the  kiss. 

He  blushed. 

The  lady,  eyes  alight  with  mischief,  halted  him. 

"Ei,  schau,  mein  junger  Herr  von  Estritz!  Where  have 
you  been  keeping  yourself,  Little  One?  Why  did  you  not 
come  to  see  me?" 

"Did  you  expect  me  to  come?"  Guido  questioned. 

"To  admit  that  would  be  to  admit  disappointment  in 
your  not  coming." 

"You  didn't  invite  me,"  said  the  lad,  for  lack  of  some 
thing  to  say. 

"Schau,  schau,  did  you  need  to  be  invited?"  the  lady 
smiled  roguishly,  coquettishly.  "Let  me  tell  you  some 
thing,  my  dear  little  lad.  A  kiss  would  have  been  construed 
as  an  invitation — as  an  invitation  by  most  young  men. 
This  much  more  I'll  whisper  to  you.  You  are  of  the  stuff 
that  heart-breakers  are  made  of,  suesser,  kleiner  Bub. 
You  have  the  beaux  yeux.  One  shouldn't  use  the  enemy's 
language,  I  know,  but  French  is  so  delicious,  so  naughty, 
so  suggestive,  nich  wahrf  Also,  liebes  Zuckerbuebchen, 
come  and  see  me  soon.  Not  afraid,  are  you?" 

"What  should  I  be  afraid  of?"  Guido  inquired.  He  had 
changed  color  half  a  dozen  times  during  the  lady's  perora 
tion.  Her  use  of  the  familiar  "thou"  had  all  but  under 
mined  his  self-possession.  He  was  half-pleased,  half- 
angry. 

"Of  what  should  you  be  afraid?  Of  what?  Du  lieber 
Gott  im  Hinimel?  Of  what  do  you  suppose?" 

"I'm  afraid  of  nothing,"  said  Guido,  feeling  that  he  was 
making  an  utter  fool  of  himself. 

"That's  right,  Little  One.  A  valiant  heart  for  so  hand 
some  a  lad.  Some  men  fear  the  sword,  others  the  bullet, 
some  the  bayonet,  and  some  fear  ghosts.  And  some,  in 
credible  as  it  may  seem,  fear  kisses.  Kisses ! !  Such  gentle 
and  soft  things.  Mein  kleiner  Zuckerbub  is  valorous,  I'm 


YOUTH  515 

sure,  as  he  declares  himself  to  be.  Come  and  see  me 
soon,  Kleiner." 

Curious  emotions  flooded  Guido.  He  lifted  his  hat  to 
the  lady  and  passed  on.  All  she  had  said,  of  course,  was 
horribly  improper  and  bold.  But — the  cursed  charm  of 
the  language!  He  did  not  stop  to  reflect  that  English, 
manipulated  by  an  unscrupulous  woman,  might  develop  a 
similar  demoniacal  magic.  He  blamed  the  poor  German 
tongue.  He  was  oppressed  by  the  sense  that,  after  all, 
witchcraft  was  not  as  defunct  as  it  was  supposed  to  be. 
He  longed  for  things  clean,  buoyant  and  yes — American. 

Stan  was  not  at  home.  So  he  trudged  back  to  Chestnut 
Street,  and  dropped  the  gilt  knocker  clamorously  against 
the  white  door  of  the  Geddes  home. 

Janet  answered  the  bell. 

"Hello,"  she  said. 

"Hello,"  said  the  boy. 

"It's  a  glorious  day." 

He  assented,  but  his  eyes  told  her  that  he  knew  of  some 
thing  far  more  glorious  than  the  day. 

"Guido!" 

"Well?" 

"Guido,  it's  too  nice  to  stay  indoors.  Let's  go  for  a 
walk,  a  long  walk.  It's  not  yet  four.  Let's  go  to  New 
York." 

The  idea  of  going  to  New  York  without  any  particular 
errand  to  take  one  there  was  new  to  him,  but  he  welcomed 
it.  It  was  distinctly  not  Anasquoitian. 

On  their  way  to  the  ferry  Janet  amused  him  with  com 
ments  on  the  town  which  were  as  shrewd  as  they  were 
humorous.  She  had,  it  seemed,  discovered  the  social  cult 
in  which  all  Anasquoitians,  rich  or  poor,  young  or  old, 
sick  or  well,  joined.  She  had  discovered  the  oppressive 
shibboleth  which  lay  like  a  heavy  hand  upon  the  town 
and  its  inhabitants  and  its  merchants  and  its  publicans 
and  the  stranger  within  its  gates.  She  had  discovered  the 
significance  of  Bismarck  Street.  Her  mother,  on  remon 
strating  with  the  coal-dealer  upon  the  quality  of  the  coal, 
had  been  told  that  he  had  a  larger  Bismarck  Street  custom 
than  any  other  dealer.  And  the  Italian  vegetable  vender, 
when  Janet  had  objected  to  the  quality  of  some  fruit 
which  he  showed  her,  assured  her  that  only  that  morning 


5i6  THE  HYPHEN 

had  he  sent  the  same  quality  of  fruit  to  folks  living  on 
Bismarck  Street.  And  the  paper-hanger,  when  Mrs. 
Geddes  objected  to  a  garish  design,  expressed  his  amaze 
ment  that  anyone  should  find  fault  with  a  paper  which 
he  had  used  for  at  least  four  Bismarck  Street  houses. 
The  venders  who  supplied  the  Fauburg  St.  Germain,  or 
Mayfair,  or  our  own  Fifth  Avenue,  could  not  possibly 
take  a  greater  pride  in  their  custom  than  did  the  baker, 
the  butcher  and  candlestick-maker  who  supplied  Bismarck 
Street. 

They  had  reached  the  ferry  by  this  time,  and  had  sta 
tioned  themselves  in  the  foremost  corner  of  the  boat 
formed  by  the  railing  and  the  balustrade,  securing  thus 
a  privacy  similar  to  that  of  the  ostrich,  which,  plunging 
its  head  into  the  sand,  believes  that  it  has  solved  the 
mystery  of  invisibility. 

"And  so,"  said  Guido,  "I  suppose  you  will  be  wanting 
to  move  to  Bismarck  Street?" 

Janet  punished  him  with  a  look. 

"I'll  never  be  wanting  to  move  to  a  street  named  for 
the  man  who,  Daddy  thinks,  made  this  War — or  laid  the 
foundations  for  it,"  she  said.  "Besides,  I'll  be  wanting 
to  move  to  New  York.  I  say  it  frankly,  I  do  not  like 
Anasquoit." 

Guido  felt  proud  of  sharing  a  desire  with  Janet.  He, 
too,  longed  to  live  in  New  York. 

"What  other  objection  to  Anasquoit?"  he  inquired. 

"It's  a  German  town.  As  German  as  if  it  belonged  to 
Germany.  I  feel  I  may  wake  up  some  morning  and  see 
the  German  flag  floating  from  flagstaff's  and  windows.  It's 
hateful  of  me,  I  know,  but  I  do  not  like  Germans  as  much 
as  I  used  to." 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  Guido,  feelingly.  They  looked  at 
each  other,  filled  with  a  sort  of  rapture  at  discovering  this 
new  spiritual  bond. 

"I  cannot  quite  explain  the  feeling,"  said  Guido,  and 
then,  with  the  inconsistency  of  youth,  he  proceeded  to 
do  so. 

"When  I  like  a  German  now-a-days,  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
doing  something  unethical." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Janet 


YOUTH  517 

"And  when  I  don't  like  a  German  just  because  he  is  a 
German,  I  feel  unethical,  too." 

"So  do  I,"  said  the  girl. 

"And  I  don't  want  to  quarrel  about  the  War.  But  when 
I  refrain  from  quarreling,  I  feel  as  if,  in  some  way,  I 
were  conniving  in  their  crimes." 

"So  do  I,  so  do  I." 

"And  so  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I'll  avoid  them 
as  much  as  possible." 

"Pre-zactly,  pre-zactly,"  cried  Guide's  chorus,  and  was 
on  the  point  of  clapping  her  hands,  but  recollected  in  time 
that  she  was  in  a  public  conveyance. 

And  so,  in  the  most  amiable  and  harmonious  frame  of 
mind  possible,  Guido  and  Janet,  after  leaving  the  Cross- 
town  car  at  Fifth  Avenue,  started  upon  their  ramble. 
They  were  radiantly,  ridiculously  happy.  Their  walk  up 
Fifth  Avenue  constituted  a  magnificent  adventure.  Guido 
had  walked  up  and  down  the  great  artery  of  the  city 
more  than  once,  but,  under  the  guidance  of  Janet's  alert 
eyes,  he  developed  powers  of  observation  which  surprised 
himself.  Everything  seemed  dewily  new.  The  smartly- 
gowned  women,  the  rich-looking  automobiles,  the  foot 
men  and  doormen  standing  under  the  awninged  and 
carpeted  aisles  leading  to  the  doors  of  the  great  shops — 
for  the  mild,  opaline  skies  of  March  had  shed  a  few  wanton 
tears  a  little  earlier  in  the  day — as  if  a  wedding  or  a  re 
ception  instead  of  a  mere  flux  of  customers  were  in 
progress. 

The  shops,  perhaps,  were  the  most  wonderful  phenomena 
of  all.  The  window  displays,  conveying  that  sense  of  the 
inevitable  which  is  the  highest  reach  of  art,  seemed  like 
creations  of  nature  rather  than  of  man.  Whether  hung 
with  carpets,  or  set  with  Chippendale  furniture  or  occu 
pied  by  waxen  ladies  in  evening  gowns  or  bathing  suits 
which  seemed  fit  only  for  stage  wear,  these  window  dis 
plays  seemed  indeed,  to  be  the  stage-setting  for  some 
society  play,  awaiting  the  rise  of  the  curtain. 

Guido's  imagination  took  fire.  He  began  to  people  the 
drawing-rooms  and  the  dining-rooms  and  the  libraries  with 
figures  of  men  and  women,  knaves,  clergymen,  artists, 
servants,  children.  One  of  the  waxen  beauties  suddenly 
became  endowed  with  factitious  life  and  her  image  lingered 


5i8  THE  HYPHEN 

on  the  retina  of  Guido's  memory  long  after  he  had  passed 
her,  lingered,  resisting  effacement  by  other  images  which 
beat  upon  his  eye,  clamoring,  like  Galatea,  for  the  gift  of 
real  life  with  its  investiture  of  pain  and  sorrow  and  joy. 

Never  had  Guido  felt  so  exhilarated.  He  glanced  at 
Janet.  She,  too,  he  could  see,  was  in  a  state  of  repressed 
excitement,  as  if  the  prodigious  complexity  of  the  life 
which  ebbed  and  flowed  about  them,  beating  against  the 
portals  within  which  was  comprised  her  own  sentiency, 
were  flooding  her  with  a  new  vigor  and  an  additional 
sense. 

Guido  felt  as  if  something  mysteriously  magnificent  had 
happened  to  him,  as  if  life  had  been  transmuted  into  a 
gift  transcending  in  wonder  all  dreams  of  poets  and  visions 
of  seers. 

Love  trembled  and  quivered  between  them,  touched  now 
this  chord  in  her  heart,  now  that  chord  in  his  soul,  fore 
shadowing  the  glory  and  the  marvel  that  was  to  be.  But 
it  did  not  strike  the  entire  gamut  of  chords  that  make  of 
life  an  enchanted  garden  and  of  the  heart  a  shining  jewel 
beautiful  beyond  compare.  They  were  both  too  young 
for  that  tremendous,  that  all-embracing,  all-pervading  ex 
perience. 

They  walked  as  far  as  the  Public  Library,  silently  ad 
miring  its  heroic  stature  so  admirably  proportioned  to  the 
space  which  it  occuped.  Like  an  exquisite,  huge  casket 
it  lay  there  in  the  mellow,  mother-or-pearl-tinted  light  of 
that  balmy  March  afternoon,  a  casket  shrewdly  fashioned 
and  beautifully  tooled  to  hold  gems  of  exceeding  worth. 

Suddenly  Guido  became  aware  of  a  slender  young  man 
walking  leisurely  down  the  broad  flight  of  shallow  steps 
with  an  indescribable  air  of  consciously  enriching  the  stair 
way  by  traversing  it.  The  young  man  was  Egon  von 
Dammer,  and  he  had  seen  Guido.  Having  reached  street 
level,  he  strolled  forward  casually  to  meet  them. 

Egon  stood  and  talked  with  Guido  and  Janet  for  ten 
minutes  or  more.  All  this  time  he  stood  with  his  hat  deli 
cately  poised  between  forefinger  and  thumb,  wearing  the 
air  of  the  thoroughbred  who  desires  that  all  men  shall 
know  him  as  suc.i. 

Guido's  feelings  ran  riot  in  watching  Egon.  He  ad 
mired  him  and  he  envied  him.  It  was  not  so  much  what 


YOUTH  519 

he  said  but  the  way  in  which  he  said  it,  the  deferential 
air  with  which  he  listened  to  Janet,  the  peculiar  effect  he 
obtained  by  gently  inclining  his  head  whenever  Janet  spoke 
as  if  fearful  of  losing  a  syllable  of  her  words.  And  Janet 
was  impressed  by  Egon's  manner.  There  was  no  denying 
it.  Guido  was  not  yet  aware  that  he  loved  Janet.  But 
the  possessive  instincts  of  the  male  responded  inevitably  to 
the  strain  that  was  being  put  upon  them.  He  wanted 
to  extirpate  this  other  masculine  creature  who  had  eclipsed 
him — as  he  thought — in  the  eyes  of  the  girl  at  his  side. 
It  was  the  old,  elemental,  primordal  instinct  of  the  male 
to  fight  every  other  male  not  for  the  sake  of  the  woman, 
but  for  the  sake  of  Woman. 

Guido's  bad  moment  passed,  passed  because  he  saw  that 
Janet's  bedazzlement  was  passing.  Accustomed  to  observe 
delicate  shades,  Guido  perceived  that  Janet  was  now  quietly 
taking  Egon's  measure  even  while  she  bandied  conven 
tional  phrases  with  him  about  the  weather,  the  Library, 
about  futile  nothings.  Presently,  however,  Egon's  words 
assumed  point  and  direction.  It  became  evident  that  he 
wanted  Janet  to  invite  him  to  call.  It  became  just  as 
evident  that  Janet  had  no  intention  of  asking  him  to  call. 
They  sparred,  parried,  dodged  and  fenced.  Janet  half  a 
dozen  times  approached  the  very  verge  of  rudeness  in 
withholding  the  invitation,  but  somehow,  with  a  laugh  or 
a  jest,  she  contrived  to  brush  away  the  offense  as  quickly 
as  it  was  given. 

To  be  game  is  the  first  requisite  of  the  thoroughbred. 
Egon  possessed  this  attribute.  He  showed  no  ill-temper 
at  having  failed  to  extract  the  invitation  from  Janet,  when 
he  finally  turned  away  to  ask  Guido  to  spend  the  evening 
at  his  hotel  the  following  Saturday. 

"No  cards,"  he  added,  "unless  by  unanimous  consent." 

Guido  did  not  want  to  go,  but  he  was  less  dexterous 
than  Janet  in  his  efforts  to  resist  Egon.  He  finally  suc 
cumbed  to  Egon's  persistence  and  accepted. 

"Why  did  you  accept  when  you  don't  want  to  go?"  Janet 
demanded,  with  characteristic  directness,  when  they  were 
alone  once  more. 

"How  do  you  know  I  don't  want  to  go?" 

"Yankee.  By  your  manner,  of  course.  You  are  very 
easy  to  read." 


520  THE  HYPHEN 

"I  am,  am  I?    Well,  I  couldn't  get  out  of  it,  could  I?" 

"Well,  if  he  ever  asks  you  to  bring  him  along  to  our 
house,  please  get  out  of  it." 

"Why,  Janet,"  Guido  spoke  in  a  shocked  voice,  "I'd 
never  think  of  bringing  a  friend  to  your  house  without 
your  or  your  mother's  express  invitation." 

"That's  very  silly.  Your  friend  is  my  friend,  and  there 
fore  is  welcome.  Excepting  him.  How  annoyed  you  look, 
Guido.  Does  no  one  ever  come  to  your  house  without 
a  formal  invitation,  just  brought  by  a  friend?" 

"Why,  no." 

"Well,  then,  you're  insufficiently  americanized.  Live 
and^  learn.  Excepting  to  a  formal  dinner,  you  are  at  liberty 
any  time  to  come  unannounced  and  to  take  pot  luck  and 
bring  along  with  you  any  friend  whom  you  have  happened 
to  pick  up  en  route.  Always  excepting  the  friend  with  the 
semi-profane  name." 

"You  and  your  father  are  forever  telling  me  I'm  in 
sufficiently  americanized,"  Guido  retorted,  showing  con 
siderable  annoyance.  "Am  I  really  as  bad  as  all  that?" 

"Well,  Guido,  at  times  you  are  not  like  an  American  at 
all.  You  are  stiff  and  poky,  like  a  European.  And  that's 
the  truth." 

"Like  a  German,  I  suppose  you  mean,"  said  Guido 
miserably.  "Now  you  won't  like  me  any  more." 

Janet,  out  of  deference  for  Fifth  Avenue,  checked  the 
laughter  which  was  threatening  to  inundate  her. 

"I  like  you  so  well,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  going  to  give 
you  a  sound  piece  of  advice,  whether  you  like  my  doing 
so  or  not." 

"Well?" 

"In  your  place,  I'd  have  as  little  to  do  with  Mr.  Profanity 
as  possible." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  impressed  by  him,"  Guido  said, 
tactlessly. 

"I  was,  for  just  five  minutes,"  Janet  replied,  without 
flinching.  "And  then  I  perceived  the  shrewd,  hard  crafti 
ness  of  his  eyes,  the  curious,  hard  lines  about  his  mouth. 
He  can't  be  any  older  than  you,  but  he  looks  as  if  he 
knew  a  lot  about — well,  a  lot  about  the  things  you  and  I 
don't  want  to  know  anything  about.  And  I  felt,  all  of  a 
sudden,  that  he  is  unscrupulous,  insincere  and  forgive  me 


YOUTH  521 

• — not  nice."  "Not  nice,"  as  Guido  knew,  was  in  Janet's 
phraseology  the  equivalent  of  "immoral."  "I  know  he's 
the  chap  to  whom  you  consider  yourself  indebted  for  the 
scholarship — nevertheless,  in  your  place,  I  would  have  as 
little  to  do  with  him  as  possible." 

"Stan  feels  the  same  way  about  him,"  said  Guido. 

"Stan  is  a  nice  boy  and  a  sincere  friend,"  Janet  rejoined, 
with  a  little  air  of  superior  wisdom  which  she  sometimes 
assumed,  and  which  never  failed  to  amuse  Guido  intensely. 
He  asked,  after  a  pause: 

"It's  not  because  Egon  is  German,  is  it?" 

"Goodness,  no,"  said  Janet,  with  decision.  "Wesen- 
donck  is  a  German  and  such  a  pro  that  he  ought  to  be  taken 
out  at  sunrise  and  shot.  Still,  personally,  I  do  not  mis 
trust  him.  Then  there's  Otto.  Otto  is  German  if  anyone 
is.  I  hate  him  like  sixty  for  a  week  at  a  time,  but  I 
always  trust  him.  Now  I  don't  think  I  would  ever  hate 
your  Mr.  Naughtyword,  he's  so  very,  very  charming,  but 
neither  would  I  trust  him." 

Guido  was  so  busy  turning  all  this  over  in  his  mind 
that  he  forgot  to  answer  Janet.  Suddenly,  under  cover  of 
a  street  crossing,  Janet  plucked  lightly  at  Guide's  sleeve. 

"You're  not  angry  with  me,  are  you?"  she  demanded, 
with  a  gentleness  so  intense  that  it  verged  on  tenderness. 
"Now  are  you,  Guido  Guidovich?" 

Never  before  had  she  employed  Dobronov's  mode  of 
addressing  him.  Coming  from  her  lips,  the  quaint  Russian 
suffix  addended  to  his  aggressively  Teutonic  name  assumed 
the  grace  of  a  caress. 

Their  eyes  met,  interlocked.  Neither  spoke.  They  were 
content  to  gaze  at  each  other,  unashamedly  because  in 
nocently,  and  to  drink  deep  at  the  bourne  of  each  other's 
souls. 

After  a  long  time  Guido  said  with  grave  sweetness: 

"Janet  I  am  not  angry  with  you.  Nothing  you  could  do 
or  say  could  make  me  angry." 

And  they  went  home  feeling  fabulously  rich. 

Janet's  adverse  criticism  of  Egon,  linked  to  Stan's  con 
temptuous  estimate  of  their  former  classmate,  carried  con 
siderable  weight  with  Guido,  not  quite  enough,  however, 
to  destroy  the  fascination  which  Egon  exerted  upon  Guido. 
Egon  belonged  to  a  different  genus,  just  as  Cecil  be- 


522  THE  HYPHEN 

longed  to  a  different  genus,  than  the  boys  with  whom 
Guido  usually  foregathered.  In  both  cases  racial  inbreed 
ing  for  centuries  had  produced  a  homogeneous  personality 
which  unconsciously  mirrored  the  summation  of  traditions, 
customs,  idioms  and  cultural  aspirations  of  the  race  from 
which  it  sprang. 

Guido,  with  his  exquisite  sensibility  to  fine  shades,  felt 
keenly  the  similarities  as  well  as  the  differences  which 
linked  him  to  and  separated  him  from  Egon.  It  had  been 
the  same  with  Cecil.  It  was,  in  less  degree,  the  same  with 
Dobronov.  Guido  felt  a  keen  zest  in  the  intellectual  and 
emotional  pleasure  provided  by  the  continual  perception 
of  these  variations  or  consonances,  and  derived  a  curious 
mental  stimulation  from  this  perception  even  at  such  times 
when  the  pleasure  which  it  gave  turned  to  pain.  As  it 
did,  not  infrequently. 

He  had  forgotten  his  resolution  to  see  nothing  of  Egon 
on  moral  grounds.  One  objection  he  had  to  presenting 
himself  at  Egon's  rooms.  He  feared  that  he  might  be 
enticed  into  a  serious  quarrel  touching  the  War. 

His  fears  were  without  foundation.  The  young  men 
whom  he  had  been  invited  to  meet  belonged,  with  one  ex 
ception,  to  the  same  type  as  Egon.  Leutnant  zur  See  Hor- 
witz,  who  had  been  incapacitated  in  antebellum  days  by  an 
explosion  which  had  torn  away  his  left  leg,  and  Herr 
Baron  Trommer,  a  delicate  youth  with  a  blonde  mustache 
and  watery  blue  eyes  who,  as  Egon  explained  in  the  course 
of  the  evening,  was  also  a  Militaerkrueppel,  both  wore  the 
same  half -bored,  half -insolent  expression  which  appeared 
on  the  boyish  face  of  Egon.  Both  were  considerably  older 
than  their  host.  Horwitz  was  a  man  of  at  least  thirty, 
Trommer  was  twenty-four  or  twenty-five. 

They  spoke  very  rapidly,  and  their  intonation  and  accent, 
their  very  phraseology  and  diction  were  quite  different 
from  those  employed  by  German-Americans.  They  were 
the  finished,  highly  polished  product  of  their  own  civiliza 
tion. 

They  were  playing  pinochle  when  Guido  arrived,  and 
the  game  was  continued  after  Egon  had  introduced  his 
friends  to  Guido,  Egon  saying  that  they  would  finish  the 
game  and  then  stop. 

The  remaining  guest,  whom  Egon  introduced  as  plain 


YOUTH  523 

Herr  Redlich,  and  who  seemed  to  be  engaged  by  some 
silk  house  as  salesman,  differed  widely  from  his  host 
and  the  other  two  guests.  He  was  quite  as  German  as 
they,  spoke  in  the  same  quick,  restless  way  as  the  others, 
and  like  them  used  superlatives  in  preference  to  plain 
adjectives.  Everything  was  kollosal,  riesig,  enorm  or 
winzig,  rasend,  wuetend.  Guido  wondered  parenthetically 
whether  this  habit  of  lingual  exaggeration  had  led  to  the 
tremendous  overestimation  of  the  German  nation  by  itself, 
or  whether  lack  of  sobriety  in  appraising  themselves  had 
led  to  this  inebriety  of  language.  In  some  respects  Red 
lich  reminded  him  of  Wesendonck,  but  he  lacked  Wesen- 
donck's  offensive  and  ubiquitous  egoism.  Wherein  he 
differed  saliently  from  host  and  his  host's  other  German 
guests  was  in  a  certain  wholesomeness  which  he  radiated. 
There  was  about  him  something  clean  and  direct  and 
honest  which  reminded  Guido  of  Otto. 

The  young  men  talked  while  they  finished  their  game. 
They  talked  well.  They  talked  authoritatively.  They 
talked  like  men  of  the  world.  The  substance  of  their 
talk  embraced  many  subjects.  Finally  it  alighted  on  horses 
and  women.  The  incapacited  Leutnant  zur  See,  if  his 
reports  were  true,  had  had  innumerable  pikante  Abendteuer 
zu  Land,  and  he  related  these  with  such  delicacy  of  allu 
sion  and  such  humorous  touches  that  Guido  joined  in  the 
convulsive  laughter  of  the  others,  even  though  he  was 
shocked  by  the  immorality  of  the  "adventures"  which  Hor- 
witz  narrated  so  dispassionately.  When  Horwitz  finished,  the 
blonde  young  Baron  began  relating  spicy  reminiscences  of 
his  misspent  youth.  He  was  not  as  good  a  raconteur  as 
the  lieutenant,  and  he  lacked  the  lieutenant's  polished  wit 
and  humor  and  art  of  allusion.  Very  quickly  he  lapsed 
into  vulgarity  of  language  and  indecency  of  thought.  His 
immoralities  appeared  shameless  and  repulsive.  He  con 
cluded  with  the  announcement  of  a  smoker  to  which  he 
had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  procure  six  tickets,  and  he 
asked  the  four  young  men  present  to  acept  four  of  the 
six  tickets  at  his  disposal. 

Egon  and  Horwitz  accepted,  a  strange  gleam  in  their 
eyes.  Redlich  refused,  not  very  courteously.  A  taciturn 
look  of.  disapproval  in  Redlich's  eyes  decided  Guido  to 
follow  his  example  and  to  decline  the  invitation.  The 


S24  THE  HYPHEN 

Baron  pressed  him  to  accept.  Unexpectedly  Egon  put  in 
his  oar. 

"Von  Estritz  is  right  in  declining  your  ticket,"  he  said. 
"Your  naughty  smokers  are  no  place  for  an  American. 
We  Germans  are  such  unregenerate,  godless  miscreants 
that  we  can  stand  that  sort  of  entertainment.  But  von 
Estritz,  to  expiate  the  sin  of  having  attended  such  a 
pandemomium,  would  shave  his  head  and  wander  barefoot 
from  house  to  house  with  a  begging  bowl  in  his  hand. 
Leave  the  prudish  little  American  alone." 

Guido  tingled  with  resentment.  Strange  vanities  to 
which  the  human  heart  offers  a  refuge !  He  was  genuinely 
disgusted  and  distressed.  He  had  not  the  least  desire  in 
the  world  to  attend  this  smoker,  which,  he  could  not  doubt, 
offered  some  objectionable  sort  of  entertainment.  But 
Egon's  words  conveyed  a  challenge.  Vanity  was  being 
scraped  on  the  raw.  He  felt  as  if  his  honor,  that  vapory, 
squeamish  thing  of  European  make,  required  him  to  accept 
the  challange  and  the  ticket.  And  yet,  desperately,  he  did 
not  want  to  go. 

Something  curious  happened.  His  memory  flew  back 
to  the  kiss  which  Frau  Theaterdirektor  had  placed  upon 
his  lips.  He  felt  no  pride  in  it,  as  in  an  unrepentent 
moment,  he  had  thought  he  might  feel  upon  just  such  an 
occasion.  But  he  thought  of  it.  He  tried  to  dismiss  the 
thought  of  it,  but  it  pursued  him,  enmeshed  him,  per 
meated  him.  And  it  whipped  at  something  within  him 
that  was  lethargic  and  dormant,  whipped  and  lashed  and 
bashed  at  it  until  he  felt  a  sudden  violent,  wicked  desire 
to  accept  the  invitation,  and  go  with  these  young  men  and 
live  the  life  they  lived. 

And  all  the  while  the  kiss  which  an  unscrupulous  woman 
had  placed  upon  the  boy's  lips  seemed  to  hover  there,  like 
a  very  real  and  palpable  thing,  like  a  thing  which  might 
become  strong  and  permanent,  as  if  the  moral  atmosphere 
which  surrounded  him  was  particularly  favorable  to  a 
flower  of  such  sinister  bloom. 

Redlich's  face  had  turned  very  red  during  Egon's  per 
oration. 

"I  really  do  not  see  why  you  should  smirch  your  own 
nation,"  he  said,  quite  angrily.  "Our  enemies  are  saying 
enough  bad  things  about  us,  You  chaps  may  be  proud 


YOUTH  525 

of  your  immorality,  but  my  parents  brought  up  myself 
and  my  eight  brothers  and  sisters  to  do  right,  to  fear  God 
and  obey  the  commandments." 

"Hear!     Hear!"  shouted  Horwitz. 

"My  dear  Redlich,"  the  Baron  drawled.  "Your  family 
is  in  a  class  by  itself.  Don't  pay  any  attention  to  him, 
Herr  von  Estritz.  He's  the  most  disgusting  snob  on  earth. 
Listen  to  us  and  enjoy  life.  Listen  to  him  and — what  is  it 
your  countrymen  say  ?  'Be  good  and  you'll  be  lonely.' " 

"Leave  von  Estritz  alone,  I  tell  you,"  Egon  said  again, 
and  again  Guido  tingled  with  resentment  and  wounded 
self-love. 

"Well,"  Horwitz  remarked,  "I  thank  God  my  father  was 
a  man  of  the  world.  On  my  sixteenth  birthday,  he  called 
me  to  his  room  in  the  evening,  and  we  had  a  long  talk. 
In  that  talk  he  did  not  enjoin  me  to  observe  the  Seventh 
Commandment.  On  the  contrary.  He  apprised  me  that 
in  all  civilized  communities  the  Seventh  Commandment  is 
more  honored  in  the  breach  than  the  observance.  At  least 
by  men.  It  was  framed  for  women,  not  for  the  stronger 
sex.  And  he  furnished  me  with  quite  a  liberal  allowance 
wherewith  to  honor  the  breach." 

Egon  and  von  Trommer  roared  with  laughter,  but  Red 
lich  angrily  pushed  his  chair  away  from  the  table. 

"This  sort  of  talk,  Herr  Leutnant,"  he  said,  furiously, 
"is  unseemly.  Most  unseemly  for  a  Christian." 

"But  not  for  a  gentleman,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the 
Leutnant,  with  imperturbable  good  humor. 

"Is  that  a  reflection " 

"On  your  family?  Heavens,  no."  Horwitz  laughed 
easily,  insolently.  "My  dear  von  Estritz,  Redlich  here,  if 
he  wished,  or  rather  if  his  forbears  had  wished,  might  be 
a  Count  and  rank  us  all.  That's  what  he  is  aching  to 
tell  you.  That's  what  I  meant  before  when  I  called  him 
a  disgusting  snob.  For  five  generations  past  his  grand 
fathers  and  great-grandfathers  and  great-great-grandfathers 
have  refused  a  patent  of  nobility.  And  the  entire  Red 
lich  family  is  so  damnably  proud  of  it  that  there  is  no 
living  with  them.  You,  however,  being  adelig,  ought  to 
have  more  sense  and  be  free  from  middle-class  scruples." 

"I  imagine,"  Guido  retorted,  quietly,  "that  I  understand 
Herr  Redlich  and  his  middle-class  scruples  far  better  than 


S26  THE  HYPHEN 

I  do  your  noble  elevation  above  middle-class  scruples  and 
morality.  Also  it  may  interest  you  to  know  that,  because 
I  am  an  American,  I  have  in  the  past  experienced  con 
siderable  scruples  as  to  my  right  to  retain  the  "von"  before 
my  name.  But  the  name,  as  it  stands,  was  born  so  honor 
ably  by  my  father  and  my  grandfather  that  I  hesitate 
to  shed  the  "von"  because  I  fear  to  destroy  the  identity 
of  my  name.  My  grandfather  was  an  Achtundvierziger. 
I  am  proud  of  that — but  not  because  I  am  adelig." 

For  a  moment  dead  silence  reigned.  Then  Egon,  the 
Baron  and  Horwitz  burst  out  laughing. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  Horwitz  cried  at  last,  "you  are  not 
really  proud  of  having  a  grandfather  who  was  a  revo 
lutionist  ?" 

Guido  bowed  stiffly,  coldly. 

"My  son,"  Horwitz  said,  with  a  sort  of  bloated  ar 
rogance,  "attend  and  learn.  If  the  revolution  of  Forty- 
Eight  had  been  successful,  it  would  have  been  a  mighty 
catastrophe  for  Germany.  Germany  was  then  not  ready 
for  constitutional  government.  Germany  is  not  ready  for 
it  to-day.  The  German  people  are  the  most  immature 
people  on  earth  politically.  Bismarck  understood  this  when 
he  predicted  that  the  new  Germany  must  be  forged  to 
gether  with  blood  and  iron.  See  what  Germany  is  to-day 
— the  mightiest  empire  on  earth,  and  please  God,  that 
empire  shall  be  mightier  and  greater  still  when  the  War 
is  over." 

There  was  no  levity  in  his  voice  now.  Egon  and  the 
Baron  also  had  sobered  down.  They  and  men  of  their 
kidney  might  ridicule  morality  and  Christianity  and  the 
traditions  of  the  home.  But  the  Fatherland  was  immune; 
the  Fatherland  was  sacred;  the  Fatherland  must  be  rever 
enced  and  honored.  The  curious  condition  of  mind  thus 
revealed  came  as  a  shock  to  Guido. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  Guido  replied,  "that  you  are  maligning 
your  country  and  your  race  in  taking  that  position,  because 
in  taking  it  you  assume  that  hatred  and  greed  of  conquest 
— unworthy  motives — alone  were  able  to  accomplish  the 
task  of  unifying  the  continually  bickering  German  states, 
while  worthier  motives,  such  as  an  honest  desire  for  na 
tional  freedom  and  racial  unity  would  have  been  incapable 
of  achieving  the  same  end.  That,  gentlemen,  sounds  very 


YOUTH  527 

odd  to  American  ears.  Territorial  aggrandizement,  as  a 
reason  for  going  to  war,  is  taboo  in  my  country." 

Guido  expected  an  outbreak  on  the  Wesendonck  style. 
Nothing  of  the  sort,  however,  occurred.  Egon  laughed  and 
the  Baron  said,  in  comically  compressed  English,  "Now 
will  we  be  good?"  Redlich  looked  startled  and  pained. 
The  crippled  Leutnant  zur  See,  upon  whom  the  defense 
thus  evolved,  said,  after  a  moment's  lingering  over  his 
cigar : 

"My  dear  chap,  you  Americans  are  incorrigible  idealists." 

"Idealists !"  Guido  exclaimed  in  astonishment.  "We  are 
accustomed  to  be  called  dollar-chasers  by  the  Germans  and 
by  the  German  press." 

"Germans?  German- Americans  I  presume  you  mean. 
Mere  mongrels.  Mongrels,  my  dear  sir,  who  have  thrown 
away  their  birthright  as  Teutons  for  the  sake  of  their 
bread  and  butter.  Do  you  really  think  that  Germany  cares 
a  rap  about  German- American  opinion?  I  refer  you  to 
von  BernstorfFs  reply  to  Senator  Phelan,  of  California,  at 
the  time  of  the  California  Exposition.  Phelan  urged  von 
Bernstorff,  then  the  incumbent  of  some  imperial  office  in 
Berlin,  to  consider  the  desirability  of  Germany's  being 
represented  on  a  large  scale  at  the  Exposition.  'This/ 
said  the  Senator,  'would  mightily  please  the  German- 
Americans.'  Von  Bernstorff  replied  that  Germans  despised 
German-Americans  and  regarded  them  as  outlaws  and 
pariahs.  I  have  it  from  von  Bernstorff  himself." 

"And  does  the  loyalty  to  the  Fatherland  which  the  Ger 
man-Americans  are  evincing  throughout  the  country  count 
for  nothing  in  German  eyes?'  Guido  demanded. 

"It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  it  is  loyalty  or  pseudo- 
loyalty,"  Horwitz  replied  significantly.  Guido  did  not  com 
prehend  the  words.  He  asked  for  an  elucidation.  Hor 
witz  and  Egon  exchanged  rapid  glances.  Redlich's  eyes 
had  dropped  to  his  hands.  He  was  frowning  quite  furi 
ously. 

Horwitz  leaned  forward  toward  Guido. 

"Lieber  von  Estritz,"  he  said,  "lip-service  is  the  easiest 
service  in  the  world  to  render.  In  case  of  war  between 
the  United  States  and  Germany — would  the  German- 
Americans  be  loyal  to  their  blood  or  to  their  country?" 

Guifto  stared,  too  bewildered  for  speech. 


528  THE  HYPHEN 

"I  will  answer  my  own  question,"  Horwitz  continued. 
"They  will  in  the  end  be  loyal  to  their  blood.  War  be 
tween  the  two  countries  will  regenerate  the  Germans  on 
American  soil.  It  cannot  be  otherwise.  They  will  regain 
the  birthright  which  they  have  sold  for  a  mess  of  pottage. 
You,  too,  von  Estritz.  You,  too." 

"Sir!"  Guido  was  on  his  feet,  indignant,  red,  hot, 
amazed,  yet,  for  some  occult  reason,  not  angry.  Curiosity 
held  anger  in  leash. 

"It  does  not  follow,  you  know,"  said  Horwitz,  "that 
because  Germany  was  wrong  in  the  Sixties  and  in  Seventy- 
one  she  is  wrong  now.  She  is  right.  Americans  refuse 
to  believe  that  we  found  conclusive  proofs  in  the  archives 
at  Brussels  that  England  was  planning  to  invade  Germany. 
It  is  true  nevertheless.  My  brother  is  in  Brussels  now. 
I  have  it  direct  from  him.  Do  not  misunderstand  me.  I 
do  not  blame  England.  No  educated  German  blames 
England.  Why  should  we?  England  is  trying  to  hold 
her  own — we  are  trying  to  obtain  our  own.  Where  is  the 
difference?  If  there  is  a  difference,  it  is  too  subtle  for 
comprehension  by  myself. 

"The  entire  question,  mein  lieber  von  Estritz,"  Horwitz 
continued  with  ever-increasing  fervor,  "is  which  culture 
do  you  prefer,  German  or  English?  You  are  American- 
born.  Yet  you  speak  German  like  a  native.  The  tradi 
tions  which  your  parents  brought  from  beyond  the  seas 
must  be  dearer  to  you,  having  come  to  you  as  your  heritage, 
than  the  superficial  sheath  of  acquired  Anglo-Saxon  cul 
ture  with  which  America  is  veneered.  It  is  unthinkable 
that  it  should  be  otherwise." 

Guido  said  nothing.  What  he  was  hearing  was  too 
preposterous  to  be  dealt  with  at  a  moment's  notice. 

"You  blamed  Germany  a  moment  ago,"  Horwitz  continued, 
"for  allowing  herself  to  be  swayed  by  material  motives 
instead  of  by  idealistic  ones.  Germany  was  once  a  nation 
of  idealists  and  dreamers.  What  happened  to  us  during 
the  Napoleonic  wars?  That  era  was  the  hey-dey  of 
German  idealism.  To  what  pass  did  it  bring  us  ?  Degrada 
tion  and  shame  unutterable.  No,  my  friend,  we  leave 
idealism  to  America.  You  are  thriving  upon  it  now. 
Why  shouldn't  you?  You  are  rich  in  land  beyond  the 
dreams  of  empire,  rich  in  money  beyond  the  dreams  of 


YOUTH  529 

avarice.  Is  it  fair  to  blame  us,  who  are  desperately  in 
need  of  land,  for  not  allowing  our  prosperous  neighbor, 
Albion,  to  monopolize  the  entire  world?  You  wouldn't  do 
it  yourselves,  if  you  were  situated  as  we  are.  Why,  then, 
blame  us?  The  millionaire,  owning  a  large  park  and  a 
fine  mansion,  may  despise  the  grubby  upstart  who  plans 
to  procure  a  little  of  the  world's  wealth  while  he,  the 
millionaire,  peruses  Emerson  and  Thoreau  and  Ruskin. 
But  the  day  may  come  when  the  idealist  shall  rue  him 
his  idealism,  and  the  man  possessing  a  healthy  ego  may 
yet  sit  at  table  in  the  mansion  that  erstwhile  belonged  to 
the  millionaire  idealist." 

Horwitz's  voice  had  assumed  a  sinister  ring.  Guido  did 
not  misunderstand  it. 

"If  you  come  into  conflict  with  us,"  he  said,  "believe 
me — it  is  you  who  will  do  the  ruing — not  we.  We  have 
never  been  beaten  yet.  We  never  shall  be  beaten.  And 
I  will  tell  you  why.  Because  we  never  go  to  war  unless 
we  are  morally  right.  And  that  is  more  than  can  be  said 
of  Germany." 

Horwitz  laughed  grimly,  insolently. 

"And  was  Germany  beaten  in  1864?  or  in  1866?  or  in 
1871  ?"  he  inquired,  sardonically. 

Guido  was  aghast. 

"You  do  not  even  pretend  to  have  been  right  in  those 
wars  ?" 

"My  dear  fellow — among  ourselves?"  Horwitz  laughed 
amusedly.  "Is  the  pickerel  or  the  mackerel  or  the  carp 
morally  right  when  he  opens  his  mouth  and  swallows  half 
a  dozen  minnows  for  his  breakfast?  Survival  of  the 
fittest.  That  slogan  originated  in  England,  the  home  of 
many  good  things,  but  it  remains  for  us  Germans  to  show 
the  world  the  true  meaning  of  the  phrase.  Germany  is 
invincible  because  she  is  fittest.  And  therefore,  von 
Estritz,  think  well  over  all  I  have  told  you." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Guido  with  fine  irony,  "that  having 
dispensed  with  the  moral  necessity  of  proving  yourselves 
right  in  previous  wars,  you  take  the  trouble  to  prove  your 
selves  right  in  this  one." 

Horwitz  smiled  with  the  utmost  good-nature. 

"We  didn't  take  the  trouble,"  he  said.  "Destiny,  fate 
took  the  trouble  for  us.  If  she  hadn't,  do  you  think  I 


530  THE  HYPHEN 

would  care?  We  are  not  liars,  we  Germans.  We  do  not 
wrap  ourselves  around  with  hypocritical  idealism  and  cant. 
That  is  why  you  may  trust  and  believe  us  when  we  tell 
you  our  culture  is  superior  to  that  produced  by  any  other 
race.  And  thereupon  rests  the  fundamental  justice  of  our 
military  excursions  in  this  War.  Even  if  we  had  been 
as  wrong  as  we  happen  to  be  right  in  prosecuting  the 
War  as  we  are  doing,  and  as  we  have  done,  and  as  we 
shall  do,  that  one  inalterable,  indubitable  fact  would  wipe 
away  minor  wrongs  and  breaches  of  faith — our  culture  is 
the  best  and  the  greatest  in  the  world,  and  it  behooves  us 
to  spread  it  peaceably  if  we  can,  by  the  sword  if  he  must. 
Some  day  price  of  race  will  awaken  in  you,  and  you  will 
understand  in  a  flash  things  that  now  seem  dark  and 
incomprehensible.  It  is  inevitable.  As  you  grow  older, 
the  cheap  claptrap  of  democratic  ideals  will  cease  to  appeal 
to  you,  and  you  will  realize  that  the  Anglo-Saxon  cry  for 
majority  rule  is  essentially  immoral  because  the  majority 
represents  the  mob,  and  the  men  returned  at  your  elec 
tions  by  the  majority  can  therefore  impossibly  represent 
the  best  brains  and  the  best  blood  of  the  nation,  especially 
a  nation  of  mongrels,  like  the  United  States." 

Guido  breathed  hard  and  fast.  The  insult  to  his  country 
stung  like  a  lash.  He  did  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  He 
was  bewildered,  too.  He  glanced  at  Redlich,  but  Red- 
lich,  greatly  as  he  disapproved  of  Horwitz's  private  morality, 
was  evidently  in  entire  accord  with  his  political  convictions. 

"I  would  not  have  you  think,"  Horwitz  continued,  "that 
we  Germans  believe  it  is  right  to  disregard  the  necessities 
of  the  lower  classes.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  in  no  country 
of  the  world  does  the  workingman  enjoy  such  security — 
such  an  assurance  that  he  will  be  taken  care  of  in  his  old 
age  or  in  case  of  disablement." 

Guido  had  pulled  himself  together  by  this  time.  In  a 
flash,  as  Horwitz  had  predicted,  "things  that  seemed  dark 
and  incomprehensible  had  been  made  clear  to  him,"  but 
not  in  the  way  in  which  Horwitz  had  hoped. 

"I  know  nothing  about  Germany's  working  classes,"  he 
said.  "I  do  know  that  the  American  working  man  is  pretty 
well  to  do.  He  earns  living  wages,  has  his  savings  account 
and  his  small  investments  and  frequently  owns  his  own 
home." 


YOUTH  531 

"And  I  want  to  protest,"  Guido  continued,  quickly,  with 
out  giving  Horwitz  a  chance  to  say  something,  "against 
your  expression  'A  nation  of  mongrels.'  We  are  a  hybrid 
nation — that  is  true.  But  Americans  believe  that  therein 
lies  our  strength  and  the  security  of  our  future.  We 
believe  that  for  reasons  which  you,  Herr  Leutnant,  imagine, 
are  incapable  of  comprehending  though  I  argued  from 
now  until  doomsday,  for  the  simple  reason  that,  being  a 
modern  German  you,  according  to  your  own  account, 
worship  the  Golden  Calf  of  Material  Prosperity." 

Guido  had  purposely  allowed  a  note  of  insolence  to  creep 
into  his  voice  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  Horwitz 
ruffled  for  the  first  time.  He  flushed,  but  at  a  half-smoth 
ered  ejaculation  from  Egon,  checked  an  angry  retort. 

"We  believe  in  idealism,  of  course,  Herr  von  Estritz," 
said  the  Baron,  "but  we  do  not  believe  in  the  fatuous 
methods  of  the  impracticable  dreamer  in  furthering  that 
idealism." 

Guido's  lips  curled  disdainfully.  He  ignored  the  Baron 
entirely.  He  had  something  more  to  say  in  reply  to  Hor- 
witz's  tirade  against  Anglo-Saxon  methods,  and  he  had  no 
intention  of  allowing  himself  to  be  side-tracked. 

"I  would  like  to  correct  another  misapprehension  of 
yours,  Herr  Leutnant,"  he  continued.  "Intelligent  Ameri 
cans  in  every  age  have  of  course  not  been  unmindful  of 
the  danger  of  which  you  speak — that  the  mob  spirit  may 
inject  itself  into  our  government  to  a  pernicious  degree. 

"This  was  particularly  true  of  those  men  who  were  the 
founders  of  our  nation.  And  I  should  like  to  quote  a  few 
of  their  sayings  in  English  to  illustrate  my  point.  If  you 
will  permit " 

Horwitz  bowed  stiffly.  A  formidable  look  came  into  his 
eyes. 

"I  am  aware,  of  course,"  he  said,  acidly,  "that  this 
country  was  exceptionally  fortunate  in  the  men  who 
flourished  in  the  era  immediately  preceding  and  following 
the  Revolutionary  War.  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  in  no 
era  of  the  world's  history  has  so  great  a  number  of  men 
of  undoubted  political  genius  been  gathered  together  as  in 
that  age  in  America.  I  will  go  even  further  than  that. 
The  fathers  of  your  country  were  inspired.  In  no  other 


532  THE  HYPHEN 

way  can  the  wisdom  which  they  displayed  in  the  framing 
of  your  Constitution  be  explained." 

Guido  smiled. 

"They  were  Anglo-Saxons,  every  one  of  them,"  he  said, 
a  little  maliciously.  "And  I  deny  emphatically  that  they 
were  inspired." 

A  murmur  of  amazement  sprang  to  the  lips  of  Guido's 
small  audience. 

"They  were  remarkably  intelligent  men,  no  doubt," 
Guido  continued,  pleasantly.  "When  I  went  to  school  I,  like 
yourselves,  believed  that  they  must  have  been  inspired. 
Since  leaving  school  I  have  read  a  detailed  account  of 
the  four  months  which  preceded  the  adoption  of  our 
present  Constitution.  May  I  ask — are  you  familiar  with 
the  history  of  those  four  months?" 

Horwitz  replied,  looking  somewhat  blank,  that  he  was 
not. 

"It  taught  me  two  things,"  said  Guido.  "It  taught  me 
that  those  men  were  not  inspired,  as  I  had  once  believed. 
It  taught  me  also  the  tremendous  importance  of  the  ap 
parently  mediocre  mind  in  checking  the  more  headlong, 
brilliant  mind.  In  brief,  gentlemen,  the  history  of  those 
months  and  the  achievements  of  those  four  months  com 
pletely  vindicates  the  'cheap  clap-trap  of  democratic  ideals.'  " 

Guido  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  Horwitz  look  per 
plexed. 

"Are  you  not  slightly  inconsistent?"  he  asked.  "A 
moment  ago  you  admitted  that  leaders  of  American  thought 
recognized  the  dangers  of  mob  rule." 

"Well,  I  didn't  put  it  just  that  way,"  said  Guido,  laugh 
ing,  "but  let  it  pass.  It  was  Hamilton,  gentlemen,  who  one 
day  in  an  after-dinner  bout  with  Jefferson  exclaimed 
angrily,  'Your  people,  sir,  your  people  is  a  great  beast !' " 

"Good  for  Hamilton,"  Horwitz  said,  heartily. 

"But  then,"  said  Guido,  "Hamilton  was  so  ingrained  a 
patrician  that  he  would  have  made  the  father  of  Frederick 
the  Great  look  like  a  green  grocer." 

"I  consider  it  quite  unnecessary  to  animadvert  upon  the 
earlier  Hohenzollern.  No  one  denies  that  they  were 
lamentably  lacking  in  breeding  and  education,"  Horwitz 
retorted,  almost  angrily,  and  Guido  had  the  satisfaction  of 
feeling  that  at  last  he  had  drawn  blood. 


YOUTH  533 

Guido  continued: 

"It  was  John  Adams,  gentlemen,  who  said :  'All  men  are 
men,  and  not  angels — men,  and  not  lions — men,  and  not 
whales — men,  and  not  eagles — that  is,  they  are  all  of  the 
same  species  and  this  is  the  most  that  the  equality  of  men 
amounts  to.  A  physical  inequality,  an  intellectual  inequality 
of  the  most  serious  kind  is  established  by  the  Author  of 
all  nature;  and  society  has  a  right  to  establish  any  other 
inequality  it  may  judge  necessary  for  its  good.  The  pre 
cept,  however,  implies  an  equality  which  is  the  real  equality 
of  nature  and  of  Christianity." 

"That  is  good  common  sense,"  Horwitz  assented,  heartily, 
"and  in  Germany,  more  than  in  any  other  country  of  the 
world,  including  your  own,  both  the  difference  and  the 
equality  existing  between  men  is  well  provided  for." 

"Yet  you  deprive  the  German  people  of  the  privilege 
of  equal  representations.  You  disapprove  of  parliamentary 
government.  You  provide  old-age  pensions  and  working- 
men's  associations,  and  in  return  for  those  and  similar 
benefits  you  keep  the  people  in  political  bondage.  And  are 
the  German  people  really  sunk  so  deep  in  materialism  and 
love  of  physical  comfort  that  they  reck  as  nought  their 
heritage  as  freemen,  as  nought  their  privilege  and  duty 
as  freemen  to  help  shape  the  destinies  of  their  nation? 
Are  they  really  willing  to  barter  the  heritage  of  freemen 
in  return  for  widows'  pensions  and  cheap  servants  and  in 
expensive  fiacres  and  opera  tickets?" 

"Upon  my  word,"  Horwitz  retorted,  with  a  frown,  "you 
have  a  remarkable  way  of  putting  things,  my  American 
friend." 

"At  the  risk  of  boring  you,"  Guido  continued,  "I  would 
like  to  quote  from  yet  another  founder  of  the  Republic. 
John  Cabot,  one  of  the  'highbrow'  Federalists  of  Massa 
chusetts,  in  the  first  year  of  the  nineteenth  century  re 
marked  :  'There  is  no  security  for  good  government  with 
out  some  popular  mixture  in  it,  but  there  will  be  neither 
justice  nor  stability  in  any  system  if  some  material  parts 
of  it  are  not  independent  of  popular  control.' " 

"Why,"  Horwitz  cried,  applaudingly,  "a  German  might 
have  said  that !  You  know  the  socialists  have  quite  a  good 
deal  to  say  in  the  German  Empire,  and  they  are  nothing 
if  not  popular." 


534  THE  HYPHEN 

"But  the  Kaiser  has  the  sole  right  to  decide  upon  matters 
pertaining  to  the  army  and  navy — through  Prussia's  domina 
tion,"  Guido  commented. 

Horwitz  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"We,  on  the  other  hand,  leave  those  matters  to  Congress 
and  the  President.  That  means  that  when  the  last  is  said 
the  people  have  a  voice  in  deciding." 

"I  don't  see  how,"  Horwitz  demanded. 

"In  this  way,"  Guido  replied.  "A  president  who  keeps 
his  finger  unerringly  on  the  pulse  of  the  public  may  be 
in  danger  of  being  called  a  politician.  But  he's  really  doing 
what  he  ought  to  do.  He's  focussing  the  popular  will  and 
acting  in  accordance  with  it  to  the  best  of  his  knowledge 
and  ability.  That's  what  Mr.  Wilson  is  doing.  Personally, 
I  wish  he  had  declared  war  when  Belgium  was  invaded, 
but  the  country  didn't  want  war.  People  at  large  didn't 
see  it  that  way.  They  thought  it  was  just  another  one  of 
your  unending  European  wars." 

"Well,  and  isn't  it?"  Egon  demanded. 

"Is  it?"  Guido  flung  back.  "Until  this  evening  I  did  not 
believe  that  the  German  people  at  large  in  going  to  war 
were  motivated  by  the  militaristic  spirit.  I  thought  they 
were  willing  to  follow  their  leaders  into  war  because  they 
were  in  a  blue  funk  about  that  ridiculous  yarn  concerning 
a  conspiracy  instigated  by  England  to  dismember  Germany. 
But"  from  what  I  have  heard  to-night — well,  I'm  wondering, 
that's  all." 

"I  am  anxious  to  hear  what  part  of  your  government 
is  not  subject  to  mob  rule,  beg  pardon,  popular  control," 
Horwitz  remarked. 

"Our  judiciary,"  Guido  replied.  "Our  Supreme  Bench. 
Our  Federal  Courts.  It  would  be  intolerable  to  American 
ideas  to  link  the  legislative  or  administrative  powers  and 
the  judicial  functions  of  government  together  as  you  do 
in  some  instances." 

Horwitz  and  Egon  exchanged  rapid  glances. 

"You  are  very  well  informed,  von  Estritz,"  Horwitz 
said.  "At  present  you  are  completely  dominated  by  the 
glittering  tinsel  of  the  Anglo-Saxon's  gift  of  brilliant 
hypocrisy.  But  we  hope  to  save  you.  You  are  worth 
saving." 

"Saving?" 


YOUTH  535 

"Saving.  You  are  no  shallow  thinker.  But  your  thoughts 
have  been  directed  into  pernicious  channels  by  the  super 
ficial  education  of  the  American  public  school.  I  repeat 
my  prophecy,  some  day  you  will  come  over  to  us,  bag  and 
baggage  and  scrip  and  scrippage." 

Needless  to  say,  Guido  repeated  this  conversation  ver 
batim  as  nearly  as  memory  permitted  to  Otto.  Otto,  having 
heard  Guido  out,  coolly  commented: 

"He's  right,  of  course.  I  mean  about  Anglo-Saxon 
culture.  The  people  do  not  rule  here  any  more  than  in 
Germany." 

"And  about  German-Americans  being  pariahs  and  out 
laws?" 

"I  don't  believe  von  Bernstorff  ever  said  it,"  said  Otto, 
in  his  most  magnificently  dogmatic  manner. 

Guido  gave  it  up.  Honest  arguments  lost  their  virtue 
when  presented  to  a  mind  which  believed  what  it  chose 
to  believe  but  relegated  whatever  did  not  happen  to  fall 
in  with  its  own  viewpoint  to  the  realm  of  "lies." 

The  unsatisfactory  conclusion  of  this  talk  with  Otto  was 
a  thorn  in  Guide's  memory,  and  there  is  small  doubt  that 
he  would  have  come  back  to  the  subject,  and  probably 
quarreled  violently  with  Otto,  if  something  had  not  oc 
curred  which  was  destined  to  reduce  everything — even  the 
war — excepting  only  itself  to  utterly  negligible  propor 
tions.  Life  was  preparing  to  harrow  Guido — to  tease,  to 
torment,  to  castigate,  to  browbeat,  to  flaunt  and  to  exalt 
him ;  to  make  a  plaything  of  him  and  to  give  him  the 
onerous  choice  of  turning  himself  into  a  rascal  or  a  hero. 
It  was  preparing  for  the  lad  the  most  significantly  intimate 
ordeal  of  which  it  is  capable.  Guido  stood  upon  the 
threshold  of  the  most  inexorable  experience  of  life,  the 
experience  which  in  some  form  or  other  is  spared  none, 
and  which,  by  an  immutable  and  somewhat  baffling  law — 
since  its  wide  diffusion  tends  at  first  glance  to  rob  it  of 
most  of  its  value  as  a  formative  factor  in  the  individual 
life — is  charged  with  a  sinister  power  to  make  or  to  mar, 
to  act  upon  the  character  which  it  assails  either  construc 
tively  or  destructively,  to  finely  temper,  or  to  grossly  deface. 

It  was  not  upon  love's  threshold  that  our  hero  stood,  for 
in  love  is  always  hedged  about  with  something  of  divinity, 
which  some  quality  of  delicate  inevitableness,  with  a  rich 


536  THE  HYPHEN 

sense  of  supermundane  authority.  It  was  upon  the 
threshold  of  love's  pernicious  counterfeit  that  he  stood,  a 
counterfeit  sparklingly  bejeweled,  ornately  embellished, 
splendidly  caparisoned,  full  of  gracious  accents,  and  boast 
ing  of  the  investiture  of  many  aromatic  seductions  and 
plausible  delights.  Yet,  for  all  that,  a  counterfeit  and  a 
cheat,  and  its  name — if  this  were  an  enigma — might  be 
described  as  being  similar  to  the  name  of  the  holy  prototype 
of  which  it  is  a  tawdry  travesty  in  that  it  is  a  monosyllable 
and  has  the  same  initial ;  dissimilar  in  that  harsh  sybilant 
and  unlovely  guttural  take  the  place  of  the  sweet  dove 
sounds  which  inhabit  the  sacred  thing  it  would  profane  by 
its  brazen  masquerade. 


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